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HOPE THE HERMIT 




HOPE THE HERMIT 


A NOVEL 



EDNA LYALL 

Author of “Doreen,” “Wayfaring Men,” “Donovan,” “In the 
Golden Days,” “ To Right the Wrong,” etc., etc. 


NEW YORK 

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 

LONDON AND BOMBAY 
1898 


.^,344 14a 2L 

C L&f'-uj <jL 

1 V 


Copyright, 1897, by 
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 


All rights reserved 


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8 EP 3 - 18 S 8 

or 

TWO COPIES RECEIVED* 


Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 


^*>1^ £> ; V6 * r ? r ] 


“ Once in a blithe greenwood, liv’d a hermk wise and good, 
Whom the folks from far and near 

For his counsel sought, knowing well that what he taught 
The dreariest of hearts would cheer. 

Though his hair was white, his eye was clear and bright 
And he thus was ever wont to say: 

‘ Though to care we are born, yet the dullest morn 
Often heralds in the fairest day!’ 

Pray, is the hermit dead ? from the forest has he fled 
No, he lives to counsel all 

Who an ear will lend to their wisest, truest friend, 

And Hope, the hermit’s name they call; 

Still he sits, I ween, ’mid branches ever green, 

And cheer ly you may hear him say: 

‘ Though to care we are born, yet the dullest morn 
Often heralds in the fairest day!’ ” 

— From Chappell’s “Old English Ditties'' 
















































E>ebtcatet> 

TO 

THE REV. CANON AND MRS. RAWNSLEY 

IN MEMORY OF PLEASANT HOURS AT 


CROSTH WAITE 



HOPE THE HERMIT 


CHAPTER I 

The sun had set. A crimson glow lit up the western 
sky and lingered on the mountain tops, but the little 
white farm among the hills was already in shadow. 
There it stood in lonely Watendlath, and even on this 
summer evening in the year 1668 its walls had witnessed 
the joys and sorrows of many generations. Yet never 
had so sad a story been enacted in the old house as the 
one which was now drawing to a close — dying out with 
the day, but less peacefully. 

A deep porch with stone steps led up to the thick 
oaken door heavily studded with nails, but wide open 
now to let in the summer air; in the large house-place, 
or kitchen, two wqpien sat by the fire talking, and to 
the left a door led into a second room which, in a 
sudden emergency, had been converted into a guest 
chamber. 

The guest was evidently dying. Death was written 
on her white face and pale lips, which contrasted so 
curiously with the ruddy face of the little newborn 
child, nestled on her arm. They were in every way a 
contrast. The mother, a mere girl of seventeen, wore 
a look of heartrending grief and anxiety; the baby was 
wrapt in a peace as profound and untroubled as if he 
had begun an existence in the Garden of Eden, instead 


2 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


of being launched on the waves of this troublesome 
world. 

f If only your father would come/ sighed the girl. 

‘ If only I could once hear him promise to care for you! 
Yet what use would it be? He ever promises and 
promises. Did he not vow at our marriage to cherish 
and love me — and what has it proved? For a week of 
happiness I have lost home and all who loved me there/ 

And at this thought she fell a-crying, but was terri- 
fied to find that her sobs were quite tearless. Had not 
her old nurse at home once told her that the dying can 
shed no tears? * Oh, John!' she moaned, ‘ come back 
to me! Come back! I can’t die alone in this strange 
place/ 

The mistress of the house, kind-hearted Mary Wilson, 
paused for a minute in her talk, thinking the babe had 
cried ; but finding that all was still she took up the 
thread of her story again, and poured into the ears of 
the neighbour who had come to bear her company that 
night the amazing news which had stirred the quiet 
Cumberland farmhouse from its usual peace. 

Two nights ago, just as it was growing dusk, a gentle- 
man wearing the usual long, curled wig, and with 
feathers in the broad-brimmed hat which was pulled 
low over his brow, had knocked at the door of the farm 
and had begged their hospitality for his wife, who was 
quite unable to travel further. He had lifted the lady 
from the pillion and half led, half carried her into the 
house, whereupon Mary Wilson, seeing the plight she 
was in, and touched by the sweet face and golden-brown 
eyes which had lighted with relief as they looked into 
hers, hastened to make th^guest-room ready. Busy 
with her preparations, she had never noticed the gentle- 
man riding away from the farm, but when she came 
back into the house-place there was the lady all alone 
by the hearth crying like a tired child. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


3 


The neighbour, who had listened to all this with 
bated breath, made that shocked sound with her tongue 
against the roof of her mouth by which women can 
express so much. 

‘ “ He shouldna hae left ye,” says I to her/ resumed 
Mary Wilson. ‘ But at that the leddy drew herself oop 
an’ says she, “ My husband will coom back; he will but 
leave me to rest awhile.” I said nae mair an’ juist helped 
her to bed, but in the mornin’ I saw how ’twad be, and 
at cock-crow to-day the laal barn was born.’ 

‘ A doot the gentleman will never coom back/ said the 
neighbour, shaking her head ominously. ‘ It’s the auld 
story.’ 

‘ Mappen they’ve never been weddit/ said Mary Wil- 
son. ‘ But I’m loth to think ill of the puir leddy. Any- 
hoo, she’s deein’. She’ll no be lang in this world, puir 
soul.’ 

In the next room all this had been quite audible, nor 
did the Cumbrian dialect at all veil the truth from the 
dying girl. It was perfectly familiar to her, and the 
words went to her heart like a sword-thrust. She drew 
down the little unconscious child closer to her heart, 
holding him with a passionate devotion, as if her frail 
arms could shield him from the hard, cruel world. 

‘ It’s a lie/ she whispered. ‘ You are his true son and 
heir, my sweet one. Oh, John! why don’t you come 
back to me ? Why did you make me promise not to tell 
them our name? ’ 

What was that last thing they had said? She was 
dying? Would not be long in this world? Why, then, 
this little defenceless child of hers would be left name- 
less and unfriended, with a doubt, a horrible slur, cast 
on his birth! Was she bound still to keep her word and 
to say nothing? Or could it be true that her husband 
was so utterly weary of her that he really never meant to 
return? Unhappy as her year of married life had been, 


4 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


she was yet too loyal to credit such a thought as that. 
He had often left her for weeks at a time, but he had 
always returned. The haunting thought remained, 
however, that he might return now too late. Nor could 
she flatter herself that he would take very much trouble 
about his child. It was not John’s way to burden him- 
self — he left the burdens to other people. 

‘ Mappen they’ve never been weddit,’ her hostess had 
said. Other people would say the same, very likely, and 
the child would be the sufferer. What could she do for 
him? 

In those days wedding rings were not all of one pat- 
tern; any ring served. She drew from her finger the 
one her husband had given her. It was a thick gold 
ring with a large sapphire set in it, and the posy en- 
graved on the inner side was this: 

In Christ and thee my comfort be. 

A little tearless sob escaped her as she glanced at the 
words. ‘ J ohn ’ had proved a sorry comforter, and had 
deserted her in her greatest need. She had excused him 
with a sort of patient dignity when Mary Wilson blamed 
him, but in her heart she knew that he had cruelly 
neglected the woman he had vowed to love and cherish. 

‘ I will fasten this round the child,’ she said to her- 
self; ‘ maybe it will speak for him when I am gone.’ 
And catching at a bit of green ribbon which hung from 
her travelling cloak, she tore it off with some difficulty, 
threaded the ring on it, and tied the ends securely under 
the child’s clothes. 

At this he woke and began to wail piteously, which 
brought Mary Wilson from the next room. She just 
glanced at the shadowy face on the pillow, and then 
called quickly to her neighbour to come and hold the 
infant. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


5 


c The puir leddy is passin’ away she said, lifting the 
child from its mother’s breast and giving it to her com- 
panion. ‘ Tell me the gentleman’s name, dear,’ she 
pleaded, raising the dying girl’s head tenderly. 

There was a slight gesture of refusal. The colourless 
lips closed firmly. 

* Tell me juist his name,’ urged Mary Wilson, ‘ or 
your feyther’s name. Mappen the gentleman hath 
wronged thee, hut ’ 

She broke off, astonished by the energy and strength 
which suddenly nerved the form she was supporting. 

The dying girl sat holt upright; a glow of colour rose 
in her pale face. 

e I call God to witness that he is my lawful hus- 
band,’ she cried, and without another word she fell hack 
dead in Mary Wilson’s arms. 

The sunset glow had faded and the night had set in 
when two travellers passed by the gloomy Watendlath 
tarn, upon which the moonlight made a broad, silvery 
track. 

tf Ha! ’ exclaimed the elder of the two, ‘ the good folk 
at the farm are still astir; there’s a light in the window. 
What does that bode? I wish, Christopher, you would 
go on and ask how Lucy fares. You can say her hus- 
band hath sent for tidings. It would he as well that I 
should not show my face in Watendlath an it can be 
helped.’ 

‘ What is the name of the farm people? ’ asked Chris- 
topher Vane, a somewhat thick-set and heavy-featured 
lad who looked about eighteen, but was in reality 
younger. 

‘ Their name is Wilson* But the man himself is away 
at some fair. I will wait for you here. Already we 
have roused all the dogs of the place.’ 

Christopher Vane, not much liking his errand, but 
accustomed to obey this brilliant friend of his, who was 


6 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


a courtier and a wit besides being fifteen years his senior, 
moved off in the direction of the little white farm and 
knocked at the door. 

‘ How fares it with the lady who came here for shelter 
two nights ago? ’ he asked, when Mary Wilson appeared 
in answer to his summons. 

‘ Oh, sir, she has passed awa’ this verra night/ replied 
the good woman. ‘ Her laal barn — a son, sir — was born 
at cock-crow.’ 

Christopher Vane made a stifled ejaculation. ‘ Wait a 
bit/ he said; ‘I must speak a few words to my friendhere.’ 

Mary Wilson saw him stride hastily down to the side 
of the little beck, which foamed and tumbled over its 
rocky bed not far from the house. He disappeared in 
the shadow of the trees, and after a few minutes a taller 
and older man came slowly forward into the moonlight. 
Looking sharply at the plumed hat and the general out- 
line of the form, the mistress of the house had no 
difficulty in recognising the strange gentleman who had 
asked for shelter two nights since, but then, as now, his 
face had been half hidden. 

‘ Where is the child? ’ he said, abruptly. 

She led him into the kitchen, where, in a wooden 
cradle, lay the newborn infant. 

‘ Put one of the lady’s cloaks about it and give it to 
me/ he said, with the merest glance at the little dark 
head nestled into the pillow. 

Mary Wilson hesitated. ‘ The night is cauld, sir/ 
she ventured, ‘ and a babe in swaddling clothes 

‘ Do as I tell you/ he said, with a peremptory gesture, 
‘ and let me have a light here.’ 

He moved towards the inner room and Mary Wilson 
lit a candle, and would have carried it for him into the 
death chamber; but, taking it from her with a hand 
which trembled a little, he went in, shutting the door 
behind him. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


7 


In the presence of death a momentary sense of awe 
had quenched the courtier’s mirth. His heartless 
schemes were for a while checked; tears stood in his eyes 
as he looked on the lovely, tranquil face of the girl he 
had loved for a few weeks and whose life he had wrecked. 

* Poor Lucy!’ he muttered. ‘ It would have been 
well for both of us if we had never met! And now here 
is this cursed brat to be disposed of! Why had he not 
the grace to die with you? ’ 

He drew the sheet once more over the face of the dead 
girl, and, setting down the candle, paced to and fro with 
knitted brow. 

‘ There is no help for it,’ he said to himself at last. 
( He stands in the way of all my schemes. And after all 
who will be the worse for it? That it goes against my 
stomach proves naught.’ 

He caught up the warm travelling cloak which Lucy 
had worn but a day or two ago, and strode back to the 
kitchen, where Mary Wilson held the sleeping child in 
her arms. The firelight flickered upon the rosy little 
face; how full of life it seemed after the marble face 
in the inner room! He shuddered and turned away, 
ostensibly to count out some money from his purse. 

‘ I am obliged to you for all you have done,’ he said, 
placing some gold pieces in the woman’s hand. 

‘ I want no payment, sir,’ she replied, with quiet 
dignity. ‘ The puir leddy was welcome to a’ the help 
I could gie her.’ * 

‘ Then keep this for the burial,’ he said quickly. c I 
would stay to arrange things myself were it possible, but 
urgent and pressing business calls me away from this 
part of England. Give me the child.’ 

Between the thought of the burial of the poor lady, 
and what her husband would say to it all when he came 
back from the fair, and this sudden demand for the 
infant, Mary Wilson was so much agitated that words 


8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


failed her, nor did she venture on a second remonstrance 
when the gentleman took the sleeping child in his arms, 
flung a corner of his own short cloak over it, and, with a 
promptitude which fairly bewildered her, threw open 
the door and passed down the steps. When he had 
actually disappeared her faculties returned to her, and 
hastening out into the porch she called after him 
eagerly, ‘ Sir, sir, at least tell me your name! ’ 

But there was no repty, nor could she even hear his 
footsteps. A passing cloud had hidden the moon; 
nothing was to be seen hut the dark outline of the hills, 
nothing was to he heard save the familiar rushing of the 
little beck. But after a while, as she stood there strain- 
ing her ears in the hope of hearing his steps, she caught 
the dreaded sound of the phantom hounds baying as 
they hunted the ‘ barfoot stag/ Then in deadly terror 
she closed and barred the door, and, crouching beside 
the kitchen fire, said the Lord’s Prayer for comfort; for 
was it not well known that the ‘ barfoot stag/ the terror 
of that part of the country, always went through 
Watendlath tarn, and was chased over the fells down 
into Borrowdale? 

In the meantime Christopher Vane had been rejoined 
by his companion, and the two men were making their 
way to Rosthwaite. 

‘IPs well you know the path/ said Christopher, 
stumbling down the rough track. ‘You seem to the 
manner born/ 

‘ Well, that’s not unnatural/ replied his friend. ‘ This 
part of the world was known to me as a boy, and one 
doesn’t forget things learnt in youth.’ 

A muffled wail made Christopher start. 

‘ Good lord! what’s that? ’ he cried, in alarm. 

‘ No banshee/ said his companion, with a laugh. 
‘ Only this brat of mine has roused up, worse luck to 
him.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


9 


‘ You have brought the child away? ’ 

‘Yes; it was the safest plan. The woman would 
never have kept him without asking a score of awkward 
questions, she was too shrewd for that.’ 

‘ What shall you do with it? ’ said Christopher. 

‘ Dispose of it somewhere in Borrowdale, the loneliest 
place in creation, and then ignore the fact that it ever 
existed. I know I can trust you to keep a still tongue. 
I have your oath.’ 

‘ Yes, you have/ said Christopher Yane, not daring to 
remonstrate with his friend, yet secretly uneasy about 
this night’s work. I suppose you’ll leave the babe with 
some of the dales-folk?’ he suggested, hesitatingly. 

‘ I have a scheme in my head,’ said the older man. 

They had by this time reached the valley, and the 
speaker paused for a minute. 

‘ Do you recollect the way to Longth waite? ’ he asked; 
‘ over yonder and across the river.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Christopher; ‘ I can find my way there if 
the moon keeps clear.’ 

e Then you go on and bid them prepare us the best 
meal they can, with plenty of hot spiced ale, and in an 
hour or two, when light breaks, we will take horse and 
go over the Stake Pass.’ 

‘Where are you going now?’ said Christopher, un- 
easily. 

‘ Only to dispose safely of this brat. I’ll be with you 
anon; and mind! not a word as to the child. We’ll keep 
a golden silence.’ 

So saying, he turned sharply to the right, while Chris- 
topher Vane made his way slowly to Longth waite Farm, 
where their horses were stabled. 

For some time the infant had made no sound what- 
ever; it had, in fact, been violently jogged to sleep as 
its father strode down the steep track from Watendlath. 
Once it crossed his mind that perhaps it had been stifled 


IO 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


beneath his cloak. He paused in a little clearing where 
the moonbeams pierced the trees, and looked at it. In 
the cold, pale light the tiny face was like marble. 
Surely the child was dead! He felt quite kindly towards 
it for having considerately relieved him from a piece of 
work very little to his taste. But even as he looked a 
smile flickered over the face of the sleeping child, and 
it stirred a tiny yet vigorous-looking fist. 

With a muttered curse the father flung the cloak over 
it, and again strode on through lovely Borrowdale, with 
its stately trees and craggy mountains and its river 
gleaming like a silver thread in the moonlight. 

‘I ought to have hired some ruffian to do my dirty 
work/ he reflected. ‘ Yet then there is always the risk 
of betrayal. After all, if I christen the imp first it will 
but translate him to Paradise. Fll get down by the 
river as soon as ma}^ be. Old Father Francis once told 
me that lay baptism was valid, but I’ll warrant he never 
thought of the baptizer drowning the child the next 
minute.’ 

He laughed grimly, but there was, nevertheless, a sick 
feeling at his heart; he shivered. It seemed to him that 
the little unconscious babe was drawing out all his vital 
heat, it lay so warm and peacefully on his arm. 

Waging an uncomfortable debate within himself, he 
strode on until he could see the outline of Castle Crag 
just across the river, while not far from him on the 
hillside to the right was the huge detached piece of rock 
known by the dales-folk as the Bowder Stone. He must 
go no further or, as he well knew, he should come within 
sight of the tiny hamlet of Grange. 

The piece of work he so cordially detested must be 
done without any more delay. Quitting the rough mule 
track, he bent his steps to the left and climbed down to 
the riverside, depositing his burden on the grass, and 
removing Lucy’s mantle, which had been folded about 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ii 


it. Rolling this into a tight bundle, he hid it in the 
hollow trunk of an old oak tree, and paused for a minute 
to remove from beneath his doublet a miniature which 
hung there. 

‘ Fd better throw this into the Derwent/ he reflected, 
‘ or else bury it here. If Lucy’s successor were to come 
across it her jealousy would be up in arms, and she 
would get at the whole truth by hook or by crook.’ 

In the moonlight he glanced for the last time at the 
sweet, girlish face, and with a stifled sigh thrust the 
miniature under a flat stone beside the oak, to the great 
discomfiture of the ants beneath it. Then, lifting the 
sleeping child once more, he stepped down to the water’s 
edge. 

‘ What shall I name the imp ? ’ he thought. ‘ It’s a 
matter of little moment. I will name him after the 
river which is to carry him to Paradise.’ And bending 
down he sprinkled the child’s brow, hastily muttering 
the words, Derwent I baptize thee, in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’ 

He had hoped not to rouse his little son, but at the 
first touch of the cold water the infant awoke; he could 
have sworn that it looked up at him with Lucy’s eyes — 
that the tiny face of the new-born babe was the face of 
the wife he had neglected. Something in its helpless- 
ness and innocence appealed to him strongly. He 
cursed his own weakness, but he could not, as he had 
intended, drown this little defenceless mortal. 

{ There are things a gentleman cannot put his hand 
to,’ he said to himself, with a soothing sense of his 
innate refinement. ‘ I cannot do it. I will only leave 
him here by the river.’ 

And without any more delay he put the child down 
on the wet grass at the foot of a silver birch tree, and 
turned to go, pluming himself on his forbearance. 

Like so many, he failed to see that it is often more 


12 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


cruel for a parent to desert a child than to murder it 
outright — that desertion is in fact, as a rule, only mur- 
der long drawn out. Without once looking back, he 
turned away to regain the mule track, when suddenly 
he paused, rooted to the spot by overmastering terror. 
What unearthly tumult was this which greeted him? 
On the mountain-side, above the Bowder Stone, there 
came the blood-curdling sound of that mysterious phan- 
tom hunt which he had heard of in his boyhood. The 
‘barfoot stag* had made its way through Watendlath 
tarn, and was now plunging down in its headlong course 
to Borrowdale. He could hear the awful baying of the 
phantom hounds and the rushing of many feet; nay, 
there came a moment when he could hear the panting 
of the stag close beside him. Then he could endure the 
mystery of it no longer, but fled to Rosthwaite, running 
the faster because a wailing, piteous voice rang in his 
ears, and he knew that the phantom hunt must be 
plunging into the Derwent at the very place where his 
baby son lay helpless and forlorn. 


CHAPTER II 


Now it chanced that the worthy owner of Isel Hall — 
one Sir Wilfrid Lawson — who had great possessions in 
Cumberland, and owned part of Borrowdale besides St. 
Herbert’s Isle on Derwentwater, had come to spend a 
few weeks at his summer house on the island. He, 
waking early and seeing that the day bid fair to he still 
and cloudy — just such a day as Isaak Walton commends 
to anglers — ordered his gillie to make ready the boat, 
in which they rowed from St. Herbert’s Isle, and the 
water being high after much rain, made their way up 
the river within sight of Grange Farm. 

Having fastened the boat to an ash tree, Sir Wilfrid 
in his fishing boots strode along the bank in the direc- 
tion of Castle Crag, and had just landed his first trout 
when Dickon, the gillie, came hurrying back with con- 
sternation in his sunburnt face. ‘ Sir,’ he said, c there’s 
a strange cratur over yonder — an uncanny cratur, that 
makes a sound betwixt a lamb’s bleat and the hootin’ 
of an owl.’ 

Sir Wilfrid laughed. 

‘ Go and bring me this strange thing,’ he said. 

But Dickon hesitated. 

‘ Weel, sir, the cratuPs uncanny; maybe it would 
bewitch us. I will fetch it, sir, if you order it — but — 
I’ve no liking for bogles.’ 

‘ Come, come,’ said the knight. ‘ Who ever heard of 
bogles after sunrise? I’ll go and see the monster my- 
self. Where is it?’ 


H 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Dickon, glad to be quit of the duty of fetching this 
strange thing, led the way a few hundred yards up the 
river and pointed across to the further bank, where, 
under a silver birch tree, was a white bundle which 
certainly justified his description. 

Sir Wilfrid strode across from boulder to boulder, 
waded through the shallower part of the river, and 
stepped on to the further shore. His companion, made 
brave by his example, followed closely in his wake. 

‘ Why, God preserve us! ’ exclaimed the knight. ‘ ’Tis 
a new-born babe, and some one must have deserted it 
hours ago, for the poor brat is half dead with cold lying 
in this heavy dew. Better have drowned it outright 
than have left it to suffer like this/ 

Dickon, ashamed of his fears, ventured now to pick 
up the poor little mortal, whose wailing had chilled his 
blood. 

‘ This be no gipsy’s child, sir/ he said. ‘ See, its 
swaddlin’ clothes be fine and soft.’ 

The knight looked perplexed. Had they been near 
any high road he could have understood it; but a 
deserted child in Borrowdale, where travellers hardly 
ever ventured! This was a mystery indeed. 

c Well, we can scarce hope to track the parents,’ he 
said, ‘ and anyhow we must first carry this poor little 
imp to some shelter. Perhaps Anne Fisher at Grange 
Farm would see to it. She has an infant of her own.’ 

* Nay, sir; it died three days since, and I heard 
Agnes say that her mother w^as to nurse Mistress Bad- 
cliffe’s infant.’ 

‘ Well, carry it to Grange and let us see what can 
be done,’ said Sir Wilfrid. ‘ We shall have it dying if 
there’s much more delay. Of all cowardly deeds the 
most cowardly is to bring a child into the world and 
then to desert it. I wish I had the horsewhipping of its 
father! ’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


15 


They tramped back to Grange, and the knight 
knocked at the door of the snug farmhouse and told 
the mistress of the discovery they had made. Anne 
Fisher’s sad face brightened with a gleam of amusement 
as she glanced at awkward Dickon and the burden he 
was bearing. 

‘Why, Dickon!’ she said, ‘you hold the babe face 
down for all the world as if’t were a pig. Give it to me. 
Bless it’s heart, it is half-starved with the cauld.’ 

She took it in her motherly arms, and, sitting down 
by the kitchen fire, began to unfold the soft flannel and 
fine linen in which it was swathed. 

‘ Why, here is a ring, sir, tied aboot it,’ she exclaimed. 
‘ It’s clear this child belongs to gentlefolks. And noo 
I think o’ it, Agnes did say that she saw two gentlemen, 
foreigners to Borrowdale, riding from Keswick at dusk 
yesterday/ 

Sir Wilfrid looked at the ring, with its magnificent 
sapphire ; then he read the posy and shrugged his 
shoulders. He felt convinced that he should never un- 
ravel the mystery, but being a practical and a most 
kindly man he determined to do all that could be done 
for the poor little waif whom he had rescued from a 
lingering and painful death. 

‘ Look here, Anne,’ he said. ‘ If you will tend this 
little imp for a while I will make myself responsible 
for all charges that you are put to. Before long this 
boy will be worth his salt. If he promises well I will 
have him educated, and if he is a dunce — why, at the 
worst he can be put to field work. Is that Mistress 
Radcliffe’s babe? I hear there is great disappointment 
on Lord’s Island that this posthumous child is a lassie.’ 

He bent down to glance at an infant which slept by 
the hearth in a wooden cradle. 

‘ Yes, sir; old Sir Nicholas Radcliffe langed sair for a 
grandson. Mrs. Radcliffe has put the barn out to. nurse 


16 HOPE THE HERMIT 

for a year/ said Anne Fisher. c And it’s glad I am to 
have her now that my own babe is taken. As for this 
little one, Fll do my best for him, sir; yon may trust me.’ 

‘ Ay, I would trust you, Anne, sooner than any woman 
in the world/ said Sir Wilfrid, with a glance at the 
strong, quiet face, with its look of motherly patience 
and tenderness. ‘1 go back to Isel to-day, but by 
Michaelmas I shall be over again for the shooting, and 
will come and see how this little imp thrives.’ 

Bidding her good-day he left the farm, and Anne, 
having warmed and fed and washed her little charge, 
laid him in the cradle by the tiny descendant of the 
Derwentwaters, little dreaming that, while the one by 
her sex had failed to inherit the coveted property, the 
other had been disinherited and deserted by the cruel 
caprice of his own father. 

Supremely indifferent to all this, however, the two 
little mortals lay cosily beside the hearth in the farm- 
house kitchen, and Anne Fisher rocked the cradle and 
sang to comfort her own sad heart one of the old 
metrical psalms: 

Unto the righteous doth arise 
In trouble joy, in darknesse light : 

Compassion is in his eyes, 

And mercy alwaies in his sight : 

Yea, pitie rnoveth such to lend, 

He doth by judgment things expend. 

And surely such shall never faile, 

For in remembrance had is he, 

No tidings ill can make him quaile, 

Who in the Lord sure hope doth see. 

His heart is firm, his feare is past, 

For he shall see his foes down cast. 

True to his word, Sir Wilfrid Lawson visited the farm 
again at Michaelmas, bringing with him this time his 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


17 


wife. Beyond the fact that two strange gentlemen had 
rested their horses at Longthwaite Farm the night be- 
fore the discovery of the child, nothing had transpired. 
Up at Watendlath they were busy with the harvest, and 
then Mary Wilson had been ill, and though her husband 
had certainly been down to Iveswick Market he was a 
man who had a wonderful gift of silence, and when he 
did open his lips it was to discourse of crops and to 
grumble at the weather. 

‘ Has the child been baptized yet? ’ asked Lady Law- 
son, who took very kindly to the pretty little unknown 
babe. 

‘ No, ma’am, but Mistress Radcliffe’s is to be chris- 
tened at Crosthwaite Church to-morrow morn, and may- 
be Fd better take the little lad, too. What is he to be 
called, sir?’ 

‘ Poor little imp, I doubt he has no surname,’ said the 
knight. ‘We had better call him after the river — it’s 
there we found him; as for his Christian name — since he 
is to be christened at Michaelmas — let him be called 
Michael, and you and I, my dear, will be sponsors.’ 

Lady Lawson assented, and held the little babe ten- 
derly enough in her motherly arms the next day in 
Crosthwaite Church. At the last moment there was a 
hue and cry for a second godfather, the parish clerk 
sturdily refusing to add to his already large number 
of godchildren. 

‘ I’d do it for a parishioner,’ he said, ‘ but at foreigners 
I draw the line; a parish clerk must draw the line some- 
where.’ 

At that there stepped forward a curious-looking man, 
with an enormous forehead and a bush of flaxen hair. 
It was the Keswick fiddler — usually known as Sebastian 
Snoggles — though, as he was apt to inform the good 
Cumbrians, his name was not that at all, but Zinogle. 
His grandfather had been one of the miners who came 


i8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


over from Germany in Queen Elizabeth’s days to work 
the copper mines now closed, and 4 Snoggles ’ was a 
popular person in all the country round because — al- 
though a 6 Dutchman’ — he played divinely on the fiddle. 

c I’m ready to stand sponsor/ he said, with a twinkle 
in his blue eyes. ‘ I’m not one myself to draw the line 
at foreigners.’ 

And the little discussion being over, the ceremony 
proceeded, and Michael the foundling, and Audrey, the 
youngest member of the Keswick branch of the Der- 
wentwaters, were enrolled in the Christian army. 


CHAPTER III 


Recollections of Michael Derwent; Begun in this month of 

August , Anno Domini 1687 , at Christ's College, Cambridge. 

A sennight since there came to me here at Cam- 
bridge a fellow who had lain at Isel Hall and had been 
charged with messages to me by Sir Wilfrid Lawson. 
Lady Lawson, who had always shown me great kindness, 
sent me sundry gifts welcome enough to a poor sizar 
who likes very ill to go shabby about the world, and in 
the parcel, to my great content, was enclosed another 
smaller packet directed in Audrey Radcliffe’s irregular 
writing and indifferent spelling. As I hastily unfolded 
the paper I saw two pair of most well-knit socks, with 
sprigs of lavender laid between them; and with the smell 
there seemed to rise before me a vision of the pleasance 
on Lord’s Island, and of my playmate and foster-sister, 
and the world felt to me a better place, just because she 
was in it, and because she took thought for me and 
my needs. 

A student left alone at Cambridge in the Long Vaca- 
tion is apt to mope like an owl by day, and in the drowsy, 
enervating heat of the summer noon I found myself 
consumed with longing for the old days at Borrowdale, 
climbing once more in imagination Scafell and Great 
Gable, and roaming with Audrey along the shores of 
Derwentwater. To wake from those dreams of the past 
to the deathly quiet of Cambridge in August was dreary 
enough; to trudge alone over that desolate, flat country 


20 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


only made me more homesick for the mountains of my 
own north country, while to look out into the grey quad 
of Christ’s, where not a single man was left to bear me 
company, made me at times well-nigh desperate. 

One day, when thoughts of Audrey had haunted me 
more incessantly than ever, it came into my head that I 
would write down some of the recollections of our child- 
hood, and no sooner had I taken pen and paper in hand 
than I found a sort of companionship in the notion, and 
what with writing and remembering and living over 
again the old days I passed the time indifferent well. 

My earliest recollection is a strange one. It is of the 
landing-place at Lowdore, not far from the mill. Old 
Zinogle w r as beside me with his fiddle, and we stood 
watching a boat and measuring with our eyes the 
swiftly-increasing space between it and the bank. Some 
of the Lord’s Island servants were in the boat, and 
beside them sat Audrey, a plump, jolly little child of 
three, much excited at the long-deferred home-going, 
and chatting fast to her companions, yet ever and anon 
turning to wave farewells to me. I can remember now 
the horrid way in which the boat dwindled and dwindled 
till it was a mere speck in the distance, and then I flung 
myself down upon the grass and sobbed, for Borrowdale 
felt as desolate as a wilderness. 

Zinogle and the miller talked together; the old fiddler 
said it was cruel to part us when we were just like sweet- 
hearts. I had no idea what the word meant, hut his 
tone was sympathetic and comforting. 

The miller, on the other hand, argued that it was not 
to he expected that Mrs. Radcliffe would let her daughter 
be any longer with a brat that had neither father nor 
mother, but had just been picked up under a bush. 

He had a slow, drawling voice, and his words made a 
deep impression on me. When he was gone I asked my 
old friend the fiddler a question. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


21 


c Snoggles,’ I said, hiding my wet face on his shaggy 
heard, ‘ was it wrong of me to be picked up under a 
bush? ’ 

‘Why, no, my laddie/ he said, gathering me up in 
his strong arms, and laughing. ‘ But very wrong of 
them that left ye there; and when ye grow to he a man, 
laddie, I should set off like Jack in the fairy tale and 
find them that did ye that wrong. I hope to God ye’ll 
hae your rights yet. Often enoo ’t is the grey dawn 
that brings the fine day. So don’t forget to hope, laddie. 
Hope maun be your guiding star through life.’ 

Luckily for me. Lord’s Island did not suit Audrey 
well, or perhaps she pined for companionship. At any 
rate, it happened that she was constantly being sent 
hack to Grange Farm; so that practically we grew up 
together, belonging to each other from the very first. 
As for Anne Fisher, she was as happy as I was when 
Audrey returned, and I overheard her once saying to 
the servant who had come from the island that the 
children did each other a ‘ mort o’ good,’ that the boy 
made the girl brave, and the girl made the hoy gentle. 
There was certainly truth in the last notion, for nobody 
could have been rough with one like Audrey; and 
though she was as brave as any one could have desired, 
she was none of your stuck-up, independent lasses, hut 
from the first loved to have a stronger hand to help her 
in climbing as we roamed about the hills and scrambled 
about the crags. 

In those days I think we learned to know every inch 
of the fells. We would play at Cavaliers and Round- 
heads by the hour together, and many were the hiding- 
places in which distressed fugitives found shelter from 
imaginary pursuers. There was what we called the 
Steeple Rock on Grange Fell, where actually in sight 
of the farm we could hide in a narrow little cleft; and 
there was the wood in what we called the Happy Valley, 


22 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


a tiny, unfrequented gully among the hills, where be- 
neath an old yew tree was a sheltered recess, which we 
considered onr most secure retreat. But, perhaps, our 
favourite expedition was a long scramble up to high 
Lowdore, where in a Y-shaped opening between Shep- 
herd’s Crag and Gowder Crag one could catch a lovely 
glimpse of Skiddaw and of Derwentwater, with its 
islands like little green dots on a silver shield. I 
remember there was a hiding-place not far from here 
in the woods betwixt Lowdore and Ashness Farm. We 
called it the quarry, and often made our hunted patriots 
take shelter there. But to no one did we ever reveal 
these secrets, hut treasured them up as possessions of our 
very own, fully believing that some day we might need 
them ourselves. And what would he the good of a 
secret hiding-place if all Borrowdale knew of it? 

In the evenings Anne would sometimes he persuaded 
into telling us of the Borrowdale bogle. She had not 
seen it herself, hut her daughter Agnes had seen it and 
would never speak to us on the subject, looking scared 
if the very word bogle was spoken in her presence. 

This ghost was a far-away kinsman of Audrey’s — a 
Radclilfe, hut which of the many branches I never 
clearly understood. 

The story ran that when in the time of the Civil War 
St. Herbert’s Isle had been garrisoned for the Parlia- 
ment, some wag thought to amuse himself at the expense 
of one of the Royalist defenders of Carlisle Castle, Rob- 
ert Phillipson, and persuaded him that the custodian 
of St. Herbert’s Island was a traitor and would yield 
up his valuable store of ammunition. Accordingly 
Anne told us that Mr. Phillipson sallied forth one night 
from Carlisle, cut his way through the lines besieging 
the castle, and with a strong party of men rode up to 
Cat Bells. But then he found that it was all a hoax; 
every boat was drawn up upon the island, and when he 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


23 


summoned the St. Herbert’s garrison to surrender he 
was only greeted with shouts of derisive laughter. He 
had had a useless ride of sixty miles! Afterwards he 
went to Keswick, where his men refreshed themselves, 
while he in great dudgeon visited Sir Edward Radcliffe 
on Lord’s Island and told him and the garrison there of 
the way in which the Parliamentarians had hoaxed him. 
It chanced that one of the many Radcliffe cousins, 
named James, was present, and he vowed that he would 
be revenged on the perpetrators of the joke. A few 
days later a young officer from St. Herbert’s Isle was 
returning from a day’s shooting, and as he strode along, 
his servant following with the birds, who should appear 
from among the trees near their boat but James Rad- 
cliffe. With many hitter words he challenged the 
officer, and a duel was fought by the water’s side, and in 
this way James Radcliffe met with his death, and ever 
since his ghost has haunted the neighbourhood, being 
seen by many both in Grange and Borrowdale, and on 
the fells and in the woods round Derwentwater, whence 
it happens that nobody cares to go out after dark, since to 
meet a ghost is enough to make even a brave man recoil. 

It was well enough to hear Anne tell the tale as we sat 
by the hearth near the glowing logs, but it was not so 
pleasant when we had to go up to bed in the dark rooms 
above, and to pass the great carved oak chest in the 
passage, in which it seemed always so likely that ghosts 
would hide! Audrey used to pant like a hunted stag as 
we ran up the stairs hand in hand, but though I was 
scared, too, I am sure I would have bucklered her against 
a thousand bogles, for there was nothing that heartened 
me so much as to feel her grip tight hold of my hand as 
though she had faith in my strength. 

I must have been about ten years old when I first 
went, at Sir Wilfrid Lawson’s request, to keep Christmas 
at Isel Hall; my patron wished to see what progress I 


24 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


had made since I had been a scholar at the Keswick 
High School, and Zinogle, who was needed to play his 
fiddle at a dance, took me over with him. By the time 
we reached Cockermonth we were very weary, and glad 
enough to dine at one of the inns in the little town. 

Afterwards Zinogle dropped asleep over his pipe, 
while I, eager to be off once more, strolled out to the 
open door, and stood watching the busy throng of people 
in the street. All at once there rose in the distance a 
most curious noise; every moment it grew louder. It 
seemed to me the most awful sound I had ever heard, 
and for a moment I shook in my shoes, thinking that 
the day of judgment had come, and that all the fiends 
in hell were hastening to seize and drag down their 
victims to perdition. It comforted me greatly to see 
that the landlord, in spite of his fiery nose and shaking 
hands and the other tokens he gave of being a drunkard, 
did not manifest the least alarm; clearly it could not he 
the Last Hay. 

‘ Is it a wild beast show? ? I asked, cheering up. ‘ Are 
those lions and bears roaring ? 9 for I had heard Zinogle 
describe how he once met a travelling show, and had 
always longed to come across one. The landlord laughed 
till the tears ran down his bloated face. ‘ Beasts roar- 
ing! ? he said. ‘ Why, no, laddie; those he the worthy 
inhabitants of this town hounding down the pestilent 
knaves called Quakers/ 

I was greatly disappointed. To have seen lions and 
hears would have been an event worth living for; hut 
who cared to see these eccentric preachers? Why, even 
so kind-hearted a man as Sir Wilfrid called them a most 
dangerous sect. I had heard him say as much once 
when he was in Keswick. Still, there was comfort in 
knowing that it was not the Last Hay. 

And now the shouting and jeering and groaning grew 
louder and louder, and a great crowd came into sight. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


25 


I scrambled up on to a window-sill to see the better, and 
was much surprised to find that these dangerous folk 
were nought but some peaceable-looking men and 
women, and my blood began to boil to see them so de- 
fenceless in the midst of the rude, bawling throng. 

Though they were pushed and goaded and driven like 
beasts amid blows and curses, they made no show what- 
ever of resistance. Even the women, when their hoods 
and scarves were torn off them by the rabble, showed 
never a sign of anger, but went calmly on, for this, I 
learnt afterwards, was part of their creed. 

I doubt if there is any feeling more deeply rooted in 
the hearts of most English folk than the instinct that 
makes us rush to the help of the ill-used and weak. The 
Quakers suffered chiefly because a wave of panic was 
sweeping through the land, and men became cruel be- 
cause they feared; but they were also unpopular because 
they spoke plainly against many vested interests. Our 
landlord, for instance, was one of the foremost in throw- 
ing mud and stones at them. But when I caught sight 
of a brutal fellow striding along, repeatedly striking 
with his stick the bald head of one of the Quakers until 
the blood streamed down, a sort of fiery strength sud- 
denly possessed me. From the vantage-ground of the 
window-sill I snatched at the stick, wrenched it out of 
the fellow’s hand, and dropped it down the grating 
beneath the window. 

The face of the Quaker lit up for a moment with an 
expression which I can never forget, but the next in- 
stant the owner of the stick had caught me by the hair 
of the head, and with oaths and blows had flung me with 
all his force on to the doorstep of the inn. * After all, 
it is my last day/ I thought in the curious moment of 
reflection for which there always seems time during a 
fall. Then came a crash, and I knew no more till I 
woke up on Zinogle’s knee. 


26 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ Are you better, sonny? ’ lie asked, kindly, and I sat 
up, but turned deadly sick, and was glad to fall back 
once more on the old fiddler’s breast. 

‘ You’re a blessed young fool to help scum like that,’ 
said the landlord, contemptuously — ‘ folks as won’t take 
their Bible oath as all decent Christians do.’ 

‘ What has become of the man with the bald head? ’ 
I asked. 

‘Well, I reckon you saved him from many a blow of 
Bully Barton’s stick,’ said Zinogle, in his comforting 
voice. ‘And, strangely enough, he be a Radcliffe. 
There be Catholic Radcliffes an’ Church of England 
Radcliffes, and now there be this Quaker Radcliffe. And 
I will say for them that they all know how to suffer 
for their faith, and that’s more’n can be said for some 
folk.’ 

It was now high time to go on our way, and having 
washed my face and hands at the pump in the backyard, 
and sleeked down my wet hair over my forehead so that 
the worst of the bruises was hidden, I set off with 
Zinogle, feeling very shaky about the knees. 

‘ I whope you’ve learnt your lesson,’ said the landlord 
in a patronising tone; ‘ you’ll hae mony a sair head, I’m 
thinking, if ye go aboot the world interfering with the 
course of justice.’ 

‘But it was not justice,’ I thought to myself, and 
trudged on doggedly, hardly daring to think how many 
miles still lay betwixt us and Isel Hall. 

We had only just gained the outskirts of the town 
when we were hailed by a farmer who was driving 
home from market. He had a broad, honest, cheerful 
face that made me think of a withered but still rosy 
apple. 

‘ Why, Snoggles! ’ he cried, heartily, ‘ so you’re shep- 
herding the laddie that snatched Bully Barton’s stick 
from him. Art going to Isel, man? ’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


27 


‘ Ay/ said Zinogle, ‘ if Bully Barton has left breath 
enough in this little imp's body.' 

‘I'll gie ye a lift/ said the farmer; ‘put the laddie 
up betwixt us. But/ with a sly wink at me, ‘ ye mustna 
be takin' awa my whip if I touch up Brown Bess now 
and agin.' 

I shall never forget the relief of that unexpected end- 
ing to our journey. Dear old Snoggles threw his arm 
about me, and Farmer Birkett wrapped me in a horse- 
cloth, and in two minutes, what* with the gathering 
gloom and the cold air and the monotonous jogging of 
the cart, I was sound asleep. By the time we reached 
Isel the moon was shining, and I can dimly remember 
my first sleepy view of that grand old mansion, with its 
battlemented walls and its pele tower. I wished we 
could have driven on in the cart for ever. However, 
Farmer Birkett patted me on the shoulder and wished 
me good-night and good luck, and Zinogle led me into 
the house, where we were taken to a large room with 
curious panelling round the walls and a blazing fire of 
logs, beside which sat my patron and his lady. 

‘ Why, heaven help us! what has befallen the child? ' 
cried my Lady Lawson. 

Whereupon Zinogle gave a graphic account of what 
had passed at Cockermouth, and I stood by trembling, 
for I well knew that Sir Wilfrid detested the Quakers. 

‘ Come here, boy/ he said when Zinogle paused, and I 
stepped swiftly up to him, much as one steps towards the 
schoolmaster for a stroke of the cane, caring only to get 
it over quickly and not to flinch. He lifted his hand 
and raised the hair from my forehead as gently as a 
woman could have done it; there was a kindly twinkle 
in his bright eyes. 

‘ So thou couldst not brook seeing Bully Barton beat 
a Quaker/ he said, ‘ and did snatch his stick from him.' 
At that he laughed right out, for as I learnt afterwards 


28 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


this Barton was a notorious character and much addicted 
to prize-fighting, so that it seemed mere midsummer 
madness for a child of ten years to provoke him. 

‘ The Quaker did not strike back again, sir/ I pleaded 
in excuse, ‘ and somebody had to try and help him, else 
he might have been killed/ 

‘ I am not blaming you/ said Sir Wilfrid. ‘Nay, I 
like you the better for it. Nevertheless your friend 
with the bald head will have to stay in prison, and I 
shall do my utmost to put down this sect, for I consider 
that it is a danger to the State. There, go get your 
supper, and good-night to you. If you mean to cham- 
pion every ill-used mortal you come across you’ll not 
find this world a bed of roses.’ 

It must have been soon after my return from this 
visit that one afternoon Mrs. Radcliffe invited a few 
children from the neighbourhood to play with her 
daughter. There were two or three of the Radcliffe 
kinsfolk and the Brownriggs of Millbeck Hall, and after 
thawing our shyness with ‘ Hoodman Blind ’ some one 
proposed a game of ‘ All Hid.’ It fell about that Audrey 
and I were to hide together, and as we were searching 
about for a good place in the little room above the porch 
we looked into a large old chest which stood against the 
wall. 

‘Let us get in here/ I suggested. ‘Why, how the 
thing smells! It is just as though a candle had been 
blown out in it.’ 

Audrey scrambled in, but her attention was at once 
drawn to an iron ring let into the floor of the chest. 
She showed it to me, and we wondered that we had 
never noticed it before. 

‘What can be the good of it?’ I said, and, bending 
down, began to tug at the ring, for no special reason, 
but just from curiosity. 

‘ Why, a bit of the floor lifts up! ’ cried Audrey, and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


29 


then, as with much exertion I raised the square piece of 
wood to which the ring was fastened, we both started 
back with exclamations of horror, for just below, quite 
clearly to be seen, was the head of a bald old man. 

‘ It's a robber! * cried Audrey, turning as white as a 
sheet and gripping hold of my arm; as for me, I was 
dumb with dismay, but seeing the terror in the face of 
this unexpected visitor, my courage began to return. 

‘For God’s sake/ he cried, ‘do not raise an alarm. 
Sir Nicholas knows I am here in the secret hiding-place. 
He himself put me here, and if another soul learns of it 
my life will be in danger/ 

‘Are you a Quaker? 9 I asked, thinking of my Cock- 
ermouth friend, and with some foolish connection in my 
mind betwixt bald heads and persecuted devotees. 

He smiled involuntarily at the question. 

‘ Nay, I am a Catholic priest, and in telling you the 
truth I put my life in your hands, for they hunt us as 
though we were wild beasts. I beg you to speak of this 
to no one but to Sir Nicholas/ 

We both solemnly promised to keep his secret, and 
then shut him down once more in the hiding-place 
which, till that day, had been utterly unknown to any 
one in the house save to Sir Nicholas and to one of the 
old servants. Then we prudently chose another room 
for our hiding-place in the game, but took scant interest 
in it, and were quickly discovered. 

‘ What a stupid place! ’ said Henry Brownrigg, a boy 
some years my senior, who played with us in an un- 
gracious and patronising fashion. ‘You were so long 
gone, too, that you might have done better than just 
creep behind curtains. Hide with me, Audrey, and you 
will see it will go much better. Are there no sliding 
panels in this house? I expect you have two or three 
priests’ holes, as they call them. Come now, haven’t 
you ? 9 


3o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Audrey had turned crimson; in another minute she 
would have cried. 

c It is not a good house for All Hid/ I said, quickly. 
‘ Let us come to the garret and dress up in the put-away 
clothes there; when the lamps are lighted we’ll play the 
mummers in the hall/ 

This idea was popular with everybody, and we 
skurried upstairs like rabbits, Audrey giving me a grate- 
ful little nod of acknowledgment for having tided her 
over her difficulty. 

AVe heard no more of the hunted priest; but not very 
long after another Catholic friend of Sir Nicholas Rad- 
cliffe’s became a permanent member of the Lord’s Island 
household. 

This was Mr. Noel, a gentleman who helped Sir 
Nicholas in the management of his estate, and acted as 
tutor, first to Audrey, and eventually to me also. I 
think in our hearts we children knew from the first 
that he was a priest in disguise. The persecution of the 
Catholics was very bitter just then owing to the revela- 
tions of Dr. Titus Oates; and Mrs. Radcliffe, who be- 
longed to the Church of England, told us that Sir 
Nicholas himself might have run some danger of im- 
prisonment had he not lived so peaceful and inoffensive 
a life. In truth he was too much of an invalid to leave 
the island, and no one could suspect him of having any 
part in the Popish plot which was the talk of the 
land. 

And here I should like to say that however much Mr. 
Noel’s opinions may have been wrong, his presence at 
Lord’s Island was a capital thing for all of us. He was 
an excellent teacher, and I always found him a most 
kind friend; he, too, like dear old Zinogle, always urged 
me to work and to hope, and though, for aught I can 
see, nothing lies before me but to become secretary to 
Sir Wilfrid Lawson, I still buoy myself up with the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


31 


hope of one day finding that I have an honest name of 
my own, and kith and kin to care what befalls me. 

Nothing can be foreseen with certainty in these 
strange times; and whereas in onr childhood the Papists 
were glad to hide from the fnry of the storm, now they 
are become most deadly tyrants, and His Majesty is 
trying to force the Fellows of Magdalene at Oxford to 
violate their statutes and their oaths, and men say he 
intends to turn the college into a Popish seminary. 
Law being thus wholly set aside, no clergyman through- 
out the land feels secure in his benefice, it being well 
known that King James abhors the English Church, 
and in ejecting the clergy would not even grant that 
third part of the income which the Puritans granted 
them when they were ejected in the Civil War. 

However, I have yet another year at Cambridge, and 
much may happen in this changeful world before I 
again see Borrowdale and my friends on Lord’s Island. 


CHAPTEE IV 


The passing years produced wonderfully little change 
in Zinogle the fiddler. He had never looked young, 
and now at sixty he did not look old. His flaxen hair 
might have had a grey thread or two, perhaps, and his 
face was more deeply lined, hut otherwise he looked 
much as he had done that Michaelmas day in Cros- 
thwaite Church, as, twenty years later, he wandered 
along the wooded shore of Lord’s Island. His fiddle 
was tucked under his arm, and his keen blue eyes, with 
their irresistible humour, their twinkling merriment, 
took little heed of the lovely view to the west, where 
the autumn sunset was already mellowing the sky and 
throwing a gleam of glory over the mountains. 

Zinogle was not thinking of sunsets, he was thinking 
how amusing the world can be to a spectator, the little 
passing world of men, with their strange makeshifts, 
their subtle plans, their mixed motives. c Potztausend! 
— ? tis a queer world, a most queer, topsy-turvy world ! 9 
he cried, laughing at his thoughts. c I fiddle to-night 
for old Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe, the Papist, who this year 
is in the ascendant, though he had to lie low when the 
plot was the talk of the land. And now it’s Sir John 
Lowther who is shaking in his shoes, and praying night 
and morning for a Protestant wind to save him from 
the scaffold he sees in the future. A mad world, my 
masters — a most mad world! Ha! here comes pretty 
Mistress Audrey, who, methinks, cares little for the 
wrangling between parties in the State, but loves her 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


33 


Papist grandfather and her Protestant mother alike, 
and expects them to agree in heaven, but not before, 
like a sensible lass/ 

‘ What! Zinogle! ’ cried a clear, fresh voice close by. 

And the next moment a young girl, dressed in white 
and wearing a wreath of mountain-ash berries and 
bracken in her nut-brown hair, stepped out from among 
the trees and eagerly greeted the fiddler. ‘ Have you 
seen Michael ? Has he come ? ’ she asked, eagerly. 

‘ Ay, ay/ said the old German. ‘ He rode over from 
Isel Hall yesterday, and will be here anon. Quite a 
man he’s grown since last he was here. Hot that he’s 
so tall, neither, as one might expect. I reckon he has 
had to rough it at Cambridge, where, according to him, 
sizars don’t have an easy time. But though he’s but a 
stripling there’s just the old spirit that made him ever 
the foremost to be after the eagles on Glaramara/ 

‘ Ah, yes, to be sure/ said Audrey, gaily. ‘ How well 
I remember seeing him lowered over the crags by a rope, 
and how Anne Fisher and I could hear our hearts 
thumping as we watched him. We were very happy as 
children together in Borrowdale! I wish the dear old 
times would return again.’ 

‘Why, Mistress Audrey, that’s for an old man like 
me to say, not for a young maid with the best of life 
before her/ 

He looked meditatively at the sweet, thoughtful face, 
with its delicate outline and fair colouring, its great 
wistful grey eyes shaded by black lashes, and the rich 
brown curls touched with a golden glory where the sun 
glinted on them. 

‘How, Zinogle, how stupid you are/ she said, laughing. 
‘ It’s exactly because all my life is before me, and be- 
cause things are perplexing and the future uncertain, 
that I want the old times back. When we were children 
together we were as happy as the day is long. What did 
3 


34 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


we know of factions and disputes? What did money 
signify, or rank, or creed? As to the future, it troubled 
us not at all. We never thought about it, but enjoyed 
every day as it came/ 

‘ And why not now?" asked Zinogle, thrumming his 
strings. 

‘ Why not? ’ she asked, hesitatingly. c Why, because 
things happen so contrarily, and thoughts will come 
troubling, whether we want them or not/ 

For answer Zinogle drew his bow across the strings, 
and to a fantastic accompaniment, and in the most 
mirth-provoking fashion, sang a verse of ( Begone, dull 
care/ 

Merely to look at his face as he sang was irresistible, 
and Audrey’s laughter rang through the wood. 

‘ If I only had you always at hand, Zinogle, I should 
never be in the dumps/ she said, merrily. 

‘ Maybe/ said Zinogle, hugely pleased with her com- 
pliment; ‘ but there is always an “ if only ” with all of 
us. If only I could have a good tankard of home- 
brewed now I could have sung that more musically/ 

* Then go to the house and get it/ said Audrey, 
blithely. ‘ But come back again; don’t forget to come 
back/ 

‘ What a funny old fellow he is! ’ she said to herself. 
‘ He is quite right, I ought to be happy enough to-day; 
here’s my foster-brother come back after his long 
absence, and to-night there will be the tenants’ merry- 
making in the hall, and all the Hallowe’en sports, and 
Henry Brownrigg and his sister coming to see the fun. 
I’m afraid Michael will not be over-glad to see them, 
for in old days he never did like the Brownriggs; they 
never seem to forget that he is a foundling, though, 
after all, it’s no shame to him. Michael was always too 
ready to mind being laughed at. He seemed to feel a 
sneer as other people feel a blow. Ah! there’s a boat 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


35 


coming across from St. Herbert’s Isle! Michael must 
be coming! ’ 

She started up from the log on which she had been 
resting, and ran down to the water’s edge, her face 
lighting up radiantly as she recognised her old playmate. 

‘ Michael! ’ she cried, in her clear voice, fearful lest 
he should go to the chief landing-stage. The rower 
glanced round, waved his hat in greeting, and hastily 
put in to the little creek on the island close to which 
she was standing. 

‘ Zinogle told me you were here,’ she said, as he sprang 
on shore and caught her hand in his. ‘ He told me of 
you and he told me of the periwig. It is well I was 
forewarned, or I should have been afraid of so fine a 
gentleman. Welcome to Lord’s Island, sir,’ and she 
swept him a mocking curtsey, to which he responded 
by a profound bow. 

e Madam, your humble servant,’ he said, with a smile 
which quite disguised his secret nervousness. 

The most noticeable thing about him were his eyes, 
which were extraordinarily bright, and of that golden 
colour which makes one think of sunlight on a mountain 
stream. For the rest his well-cut features and rather 
short face seemed to be of the Welsh type, and though 
wiry and athletic, he was neither tall nor particularly 
strong-looking, but had a resolute expression bespeaking 
great powers of endurance. 

‘ After all, save for the periwig, I don’t think you are 
much altered,’ said Audrey, gaily, ‘ and you have grown 
monstrous silent. There’s a great change there; has 
Cambridge cultivated your brain at the expense of your 
tongue ? ’ 

‘ In the words of the riddle it’s only tongue and brains 
that make the best dish for conversation,’ he replied, 
with a laugh. ‘ Cambridge is not to be blamed, but 
rather the spell of this place and the change in you.’ 


36 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ What ! 9 she cried, with a roguish little glance, ‘ have 
I turned into a Gorgon during your absence, and do I 
now freeze you into silence? In what, pray, am I 
changed? 9 

‘ You are a thousand times more beautiful/ he said, 
in a voice so low and reverent that it seemed like an act 
of worship. But Audrey failed to catch its significance; 
he was to her nothing hut her old comrade, and people 
are seldom very observant under those circumstances. 

‘ They teach you to make compliments at Cambridge/ 
she said, laughing — ‘ a very dangerous practice, let me 
tell you, sir, and not to be tolerated from a foster- 
brother. We two, at any rate, will speak the truth 
together. Come! 9 — she slipped her hand into his as she 
would have done years ago — ‘ let us sit down here for a 
while and chat; there are many things I want to hear 
and to tell/ 

Michael had winced involuntarily at the word brother; 
he could hardly tell whether it was pleasure, or torture 
to him to feel her hand resting so carelessly in his; hut 
they walked together to the fallen tree, and there sat 
talking in friendly fashion. 

‘And so your Cambridge days are over/ she said. 
‘And Zinogle tells me you found the life of a sizar a 
rough one/ 

‘ It was what my life is like to prove from beginning 
to end/ he said. ‘ One of uncertain position, one which 
must be always looked down on and held in contempt. • 
As for the menial part of the work that fell to me, I 
cared nothing about that. It was honest labour, and 
there was no disgrace in it; but the thing which galled 
one was the contempt of other men whose lot chanced to 
be happier/ 

Audrey’s face had grown thoughtful and tender. Her 
thoughts flew back to a time when Michael had been 
a daily scholar at the Keswick High School, founded in 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


37 


the days of the Tudors, and she remembered how Zinogle 
the fiddler had once brought him to Lord’s Island, more 
dead than alive, after fighting Henry Brownrigg, a boy 
nearly twice his size. 

Why did you fight him? ’ her mother had asked as 
she bathed his face. 

‘ He called me base-born,’ replied Michael, with an 
indignation which had made a deep impression on his 
little foster-sister. And from that day forward there 
had always been a sort of feud between Michael and 
his antagonist, though of late years they had seen noth- 
ing of each other. 

‘ I suppose Anne Fisher really knows no more than 
what she always told us as children? ’ said Audrey. 

f No, I questioned her only yesterday, and Sir Wilfrid 
and Dickon, the gillie, did their utmost to trace things 
out at the time, but failed.’ 

‘ Then why trouble any more about it? ’ said Audrey; 
‘ after all, what does it matter? “ What’s in a name? ” 
as the bard of Avon sings.’ 

t All the difference betwixt honour and dishonour at 

times,’ said Michael, with a sigh. ‘ This ring ’ he 

took off the sapphire ring he was wearing and glanced 
at the posy inscribed on it; * this ring may be clear proof 
to my own mind that my mother was wedded, but it is 
no legal proof whatever.’ 

‘ For my part,’ said Audrey, holding out her hand for 
the ring and looking at it attentively, ‘ I could weave a 
whole romance out of this. They were good and God- 
fearing people, your parents, else wherefore this motto, 
and some treacherous servant, out of spite, made away 
with you on the death of your mother; your father was 
away from home, and either believed that you had died 
at your birth or else learnt something of the truth and 
still searches all England for you. Then the wicked 
nurse who had hoped to get him into her power and to 


38 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


step into the place of her late mistress, and win the 
estate for her children, pined away and came to a miser- 
able end, as the covetors of land and money always do. 
Did yon never hear the tale of my great-annt Isa- 
bella? ’ 

‘ Who was she ? 9 

‘ I never saw her, she died six years ago, and had long 
been bedridden. Yon mnst have heard of my great- 
nncle Radcliffe, a yonnger brother of my grandfather’s. 
Well, the story goes, no sooner was I born and great- 
nncle Radcliffe became heir to the estate — not this 
island, which belongs, of course, to the Radcliffes of 
Dilston, bnt heir to Goldrill, near Ulleswater, this fair 
Lady Isabella, who for some reason had ever coveted 
the estate, straightway consented to wed my great-nncle; 
and there was born to them a most lovely child, a son, 
who was the delight of both father and mother. When 
this child was bnt three years old he fell into the beck 
which runs past the house, and his mother saw his peril 
and tried to save him bnt could not; and the terrible 
sight of his death wholly shattered her health, poor 
lady/ 

‘ Have yon ever seen your great-uncle?’ 

‘ I have no remembrance of him,’ said Audrey. * After 
the death of his son he lived in London, and at the time 
of the so-called Popish plot he was for long in prison 
and in peril of his life, although he was innocent 
enough, like many others in those times who fell victims 
to that false-tongued Dr. Titus Oates.’ 

‘ Have a care,’ said Michael; ‘ it is not always safe to 
denounce Dr. Oates even yet. There are some that 
would take you for a Papist an you spoke like that. 
Here comes Zinogle. Any news to-day in Keswick, 
Zinogle? ’ 

‘ Why yes, sir, there has come news that the Prince 
of Orange set sail last week, but after two days at sea 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


39 


was driven back by reason of a great tempest. And 
they do say that Sir J ohn Lowther is in the dumps, and 
prays night and day for a Protestant wind/ 

‘ ’Tis like enough/ said Michael. ‘ For if the Prince 
does not come to deliver us from the king’s tyranny he 
will pay dearly for his expedition the other night/ 

‘ Is it, tljen, really true that Sir J ohn armed his 
tenants ? ’ asked Audrey. ‘ My mother heard some 
rumour of it, but in our divided household we seldom 
learn the truth of things/ 

‘ Tell it not in Gath, but I was in the expedition 
myself/ said Michael, his face lighting up. 6 By great 
good fortune Sir Wilfrid had sent me over to Sir John 
Lowther’s with important papers for his perusal. And 
it so chanced that Andrew Huddleston, of Hutton John, 
brought word to the Lowthers that a ship would arrive 
at Workington laden with arms and ammunition for the 
popish garrison at Carlisle. Then there was such a 
mustering of the tenants as it would have done your 
heart good to see, and we were marched by night to the 
coast, and forced the vessel to surrender. That was the 
first act of the drama, but the second act does not 
prosper so well. Of course, the Prince of Orange should 
have been here by now, but thanks to contrary winds he 
is yet in Holland/ 

‘ I care not whether he comes or no, so that they do 
not molest my grandfather/ said Audrey. 

‘ Ho one would molest him/ said Michael, warmly. 
* They say, moreover, that the Prince of Orange is tol- 
erant and just, and a Papist who lives in peace with his 
neighbours, and seeks not to meddle with the liberties 
of Englishmen, is not likely to be in any peril/ 

‘ Perhaps not, yet I would that Dr. Oates were safely 
out of the way/ said Audrey. Then, as Zinogle wandered 
away playing his favourite air, Lady Frances NevilVs 
Delight , she said, lowering her voice, tf Can you ever 


40 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


forget that poor old priest we suddenly came upon in 
the secret hiding-place? 5 

‘ No/ said Michael. What awful terror there was in 
his face when we suddenly unearthed him in our game 
of All Hid. It was well for him we were the children, 
and not any of the Brownrigg clan; they would certainly 
have betrayed him, and brought trouble on your grand- 
father, and perhaps death to the refugee. 5 

* It was well that he let us tell my grandfather, other- 
wise I could never have borne it/ said Audrey. c And do 
you know, Michael, I believe it was your courage and 
your silence that day that first made my grandfather 
take so kindly to you. He always speaks of you with 
respect. 5 

‘ I wonder what became of the priest? 5 said Michael. 

‘I asked my grandfather not long since. He said 
that he escaped the following day, and went over to 
Ireland, and then, I think, to France. He is alive now, 
but where I don’t know. What should you do in a like 
case now that you are a man? Should you harbour a 
Papist? 5 

‘ That would depend on the sort of man he proved to 
be. Such an one as Sir Nicholas Radcliffe I would 
most certainly shield and protect had I the chance, but 
for the lying scoundrels who would bring free English- 
men under the thraldom of Rome, why I would not lift a 
finger to help them. As for Sir Nicholas, he is one of 
the best men living, and differences of creed come not to 
one’s mind when speaking with him. 5 

* There is the bell ringing to summon us to the merry- 
making/ said Audrey, springing up from the fallen tree. 
c Now let us forget all cares, and only remember that it 
is Allhallows e’en. 5 


CHAPTER Y 


Recollections of Michael Derwent ; Written in the month of No- 
vember, 1688 , at St. Herbert's Isle , Derwentwater. 

When, after my long absence at Cambridge, I once 
more saw Audrey Radcliffe, she bade me to a merry- 
making and said that we were to forget all cares, it 
being Hallowe’en. Her face had been a trifle grave a 
moment before, our talk having turned upon religious 
differences, which ever bring some sadness into the 
happiest of homes; but it lit up as she spoke with its 
old look of radiant, childlike happiness. Never, surely, 
was there a more winsome face than hers, with its frank, 
sweet look, its freedom from all that was artificial. One 
would as soon have expected the noble beech trees in the 
pleasance to lend themselves to the grotesque figures 
into which gardeners hack box bushes, as have expected 
Audrey to abandon her free, natural manner for the cat- 
and-mouse tactics which most women adopt. To talk 
with her was like talking with a boy, so free was she 
from any trying after effect, only all the time one was 
conscious of a sweet, subtle difference, and knew that 
she was just a pure-minded woman who had grown up 
among the hills and dales of the dear old North-country, 
and was as yet heart-whole as a child. 

We walked slowly towards the old house, a fifteenth- 
century mansion built of rough-hewn stone, but now, 
since the stormy times of the great Civil War, sadly 


42 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


falling into decay. Sir Wilfrid Lawson has often told 
me what stirring times they had then, even in this quiet 
part of the world, for Lord’s Island was garrisoned for 
the King by old Sir Edward Radcliffe, while St. Her- 
bert’s Isle — the Lawson property — was garrisoned, of 
course, for the Parliament. Naturally Lord’s Island 
came off the worst, and the large private chapel, which, 
to judge by the fragments remaining, must have been 
a fine building, was unroofed, leaving little standing 
but the eastern wall and its pointed window, with ivy 
and creepers now festooning the broken tracery. The 
dining-room, moreover, which adjoined it, was half de- 
molished, so that there only remained on the ground 
floor three rooms for the family use. 

Sir Francis Radcliffe, the present head of the Der- 
wentwater family, lived wholly on his great property at 
Dilston, in Northumberland, and they say that it was 
only to humour a fancy of his kinsman, old Sir Nicholas, 
that he permitted this younger branch of the Derwent- 
waters to reside in the old house. In his heart of hearts 
Sir Nicholas believes that the Lord’s Island property 
should really have been his, he being the descendant 
of Nicholas Radcliffe, gentleman, of Keswick, fourth 
son of Sir Thomas Radcliffe, who built the house. It 
seems there was a family arrangement made by which 
the first son was disinherited, and was only to be allowed 
occupation by sufferance during his life, after which the 
estate was to pass to the other sons and their descen- 
dants. However, when the time came for this extraor- 
dinary arrangement to be carried out, the son of the 
disinherited heir was allowed to succeed, and, being a 
man of much force of character, he made for himself a 
good position and devised the estate at his death. This 
story of the far past still rankles, nevertheless, in the 
mind of old Sir Nicholas, who spends much of his time 
in poring over musty old deeds and trying to prove to 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


43 


the satisfaction of the lawyers that he should really he 
owner of Lord’s Island instead of merely the occupant 
of this half-dismantled house. 

Audrey led me through the withdrawing-room into 
the great hall, where the tenants were already gathering 
in answer to the big bell which clanged overhead in 
the tower. Standing to welcome them was old Sir 
Nicholas in his mulberry-coloured coat. He was not in 
the least altered; indeed, he appeared to me, if anything, 
younger, for, as a boy, I had always thought of him as 
a very aged man. Now there seemed to me, after all, 
to be much vitality in the gentle old face, though he 
had already reached his three-score years and ten. His 
mild blue eyes had always to me the look of some 
mediaeval saint, and they glanced at me very kindly 
when he spoke and bade me welcome to Lord’s Island. 
It was in Audrey’s mother that I noticed more plainly 
the havoc that time had wrought. She had never been 
strong, and now her hair was quite grey, while there 
were lines that told of pain and anxiety about her 
mouth. One does not think much about one’s elders 
in childhood, but, coming back to the old scenes again, 
it struck me for the first time what a difficult life Mrs. 
Marmaduke Radcliffe had led. Even the days of her 
courtship must have been troubled, for it had sorely 
displeased Sir Nicholas that his heir should fall in love 
with a dowerless maid, and a Protestant to boot, and 
Marmaduke had made matters still more trying to his 
father by joining the Church of England himself, and 
leaving directions in his will that his children should be 
brought up in the same faith. Then he had died before 
they had been married a year, and his widow had still 
further disappointed Sir Nicholas by giving birth to a 
daughter instead of a son, whereby the Goldrill estate 
would pass upon his death to his younger brother, who, 
although of his own creed, was not a man in whom any 


44 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


one put much confidence — at least, so I have heard 
Zinogle say. 

Mrs. Radcliffe put many questions to me about my life 
at Cambridge, to which I replied dutifully, though, at 
the same time, I could not forbear now and again glanc- 
ing at Audrey as she moved about, chatting now with 
this tenant, now with that. She had grown up among 
them much as I had done, and she loved and respected 
these sturdy North-country folk, and they, needless to 
say, were quite ready to like one so winsome. 

‘ And what are your plans now?* asked Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe. 

Her voice made me start guiltily, for, truth to tell, I 
had paid no very great heed to what she had been saying 
as to the changes that had come about during my 
absence, or at any rate had given it but a divided 
attention, hearing also Audrey’s merry talk with 
Zinogle. 

‘What are your plans?’ said Mrs. Radcliffe once more, 
and there was something in her look and tone that dis- 
concerted me horribly. I felt as if my heart had been 
suddenly laid bare before her, as if she knew all about 
the love which had quietly grown with my growth and 
strengthened with my strength, and had now taken 
possession of me body and soul. I grew hot all over 
beneath the searching inquiry of those grey eyes, which 
were so like Audrey’s in shape and colour, but so unlike 
in expression. 

I stammered like a stupid schoolboy. e Sir Wilfrid 
Lawson has made me his secretary, ma’am,’ I explained. 
‘ I shall be sometimes at the house on St. Herbert’s Isle, 
but more often at Isel Hall/ 

Mrs. Radcliffe looked relieved, for Isel Hall lies be- 
yond Bassenthwaite and Cockermouth, and is, as I 
found to my cost, a most cruel distance from Lord’s 
Island. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


45 


And at the thought of this and the recollection that 
it was sheer midsummer madness for a poor and penni- 
less foundling of doubtful birth to woo Audrey Rad- 
cliffe, a great heaviness fell upon me, and maybe it 
would have been better had that sobering recollection 
continued to weigh me down; only, unfortunately, all 
things seem possible at twenty, and no sooner had 
Zinogle played the first two or three bars of the merry 
air ‘ Come, lasses and lads/ than my spirits had risen 
again, and before the great bell had ceased clanging I 
had asked Audrey to be my partner in the country 
dance, and we were galloping down the middle and up 
again. 

I do not know whether at Court Audrey would have 
been considered a good dancer; perhaps in the stiff and 
stately minuets she might not have excelled, but at a 
country dance no one could beat her; she was all life 
and animation and gaiety; she enjoyed it as unfeignedly 
as a child. As for me, naturally enough, I was in the 
seventh heaven of happiness, and came down to earth 
again with a shock as Zinogle ceased playing, and — the 
dance being over — we suddenly perceived that two 
visitors had entered the hall while it was in progress, 
and were now talking to Sir Nicholas and Mrs. Radcliffe. 
Audrey just glanced at me, and then laughed. 

* I see you do not recognise them/ she said. e Come 
and let me introduce you/ 

There was no doubt that the guest who stood talking 
to Sir Nicholas was a remarkably fine man. His huge 
proportions seemed to dwarf the old knight altogether; 
he was broad and massive, and held his head very erect, 
as though calmly conscious of his own immense supe- 
riority to the average mortals he met. At the first 
glance I disliked the fellow, but when I saw him stoop 
to salute Audrey, and speak to her in his affected, 
patronising tone, I longed to kick him. 


46 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ Here is an old schoolfellow of yours,’ she said, cheer- 
fully; ‘but you fail to recognise each other. Let me 
present Mr. Derwent, Mr. Brownrigg.’ 

I bowed stiffly, but Henry Brownrigg with a laugh — 
artificial as the rest of his manners and customs — held 
out his huge hand, and said in most patronising tones, 
‘What, Michael Derwent, the foundling? I had al- 
most forgotten your existence. What have you been 
doing with yourself all this time ? * 

There was nothing for it but to take the massive 
hand he proffered; it was so broad and large that it felt 
like shaking hands with a beef-steak. I muttered 
something about Cambridge, and Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 
angry with myself for letting this conceited fellow put 
me so foolishly out of countenance. 

‘ Ah, to be sure; Sir Wilfrid Lawson was your patron 
from the first; I remember now/ he said, looking me 
over in his supercilious way. ‘ Don’t you find him 
rather too outspoken — rather uncompromising? He 
seems to me a dangerous patron in these dubious days, 
when no one knows which way things will turn.’ 

‘ He has always been a good friend to me,’ I said, 
hotly, ‘ and it scarcely becomes his secretary to criticise 
him.’ 

‘ Oh, he has made you his secretary? ’ said Brownrigg, 
with a covert sneer. '‘I see; you are, of course, quite 
right; you mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you.’ 

With that he turned his back upon me and began to 
talk in a low voice to Audrey, who seemed very well 
pleased with his attentions, as indeed was most natural, 
for there was no denying that he was a fine fellow, 
though of a type I instinctively loathe. 

Old Sir Nicholas glanced at them thoughtfully, then 
with a slight shrug of the shoulders he turned to me 
and said in his kind courteous fashion. ‘ If vou will 
come with me into my study we will have a chat with 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


47 


your old friend and tutor, Mr. Noel; I see him over 
yonder, listening to one of William Hollins’ tales.’ 

And, truly enough, on looking across the hall I saw 
that Mr. Noel, while listening to the farmer’s talk, had 
his keen grey eyes fixed upon our group, and had 
evidently noticed all that had passed. He gave me a 
very pleasant greeting and we followed the old knight 
into his study, a small, square room leading out of the 
hall. It was lighted only by the blazing fire on the 
hearth, and through the uncurtained window we could 
see the moonlight on the water and the dark outline of 
Skiddaw against the pale sky. Sir Nicholas, tired with 
the effort of receiving his guests, sank down wearily in 
his armchair, while Mr. Noel held me for some time in 
talk by the window. 

He had lived for the last ten years with Sir Nicholas, 
and passed for his secretary; he kept all the household 
accounts, looked after the property at Patterdale which 
belonged to this younger branch of the Derwentwaters, 
and during our childhood had acted as tutor to Audrey. 
He wore secular dress, but of late years it had become 
an open secret in the neighbourhood that he was in 
reality a priest, probably one of the many Papists who 
had been in peril of their lives during the late king’s 
reign, when panic had possessed the country and many 
false reports had been spread abroad. 

Mr. Noel had always been exceptionally kind to me, 
as I said before, and it was largely through his influence 
that Audrey and I had been permitted to continue 
friends after our actual childhood was over; it was from 
him that I had learnt many things which I could never 
have learnt in the Keswick High School; and my success 
at Cambridge was due to the thoroughness of the 
grounding which he had given me in his leisure hours. 
Mrs. Radcliffe had taken good care that he should never 
interfere with our religious views; but I am not sure 


4 8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


that I could have resisted his strong, indirect influence 
had I not been withdrawn from it during the most 
critical years of life and plunged into the wider world 
of the University. 

Coming back to my old friend and teacher after the 
years of absence, I noticed one or two things about him 
which as a boy had wholly escaped me. Beneath his 
polished manners and his kindly, quiet way of talking 
there was a suggestion of hardness. His power of read- 
ing people’s thoughts seemed almost uncanny, and he 
presented a curious contrast to the saintly old knight, 
for where the one was simple as a child the other was 
evidently a man of schemes, though always, I should 
fancy, schemes woven for what he thought the benefit 
of others, since he was a good and a kind-hearted man. 
The more he talked to me, however, that evening, the 
more I became conscious that he looked upon life as a 
very serious game of chess which the Almighty had set 
him to play with the devil as opponent. We — the 
laity whom he came across — were merely the pieces in 
the game, to be moved as he thought best. And I am 
sure he honestly believed that free-will was only given to 
the laity that they might resign their wills into the 
hands of the priest, who would mediate betwixt them 
and heaven, guide all their affairs with the discretion 
and wisdom which come from knowing the secrets of 
all other men in the confessional, and, saving us a mort 
of trouble, would personally conduct us through life 
in the easiest way conceivable. 

Nevertheless, though in common with the vast major- 
ity of Englishmen I abhorred this notion of priestly 
domination, I loved my old friend very heartily, and 
spite of his failure to number me among his converts I 
think he loved me, too. There were three things which 
bound us closely together; the first was a mutual admi- 
ration for old Sir Nicholas and his island home, the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


49 


second was a love of climbing the fells and crags of 
Borrowdale, and the third was a common detestation of 
Henry Brownrigg. 

My heart warmed to the old tutor when I found that 
this last was stronger than ever. 

‘ Why are the Brownriggs here to-night ? * I ques- 
tioned, seeing that Sir Nicholas had fallen asleep, and 
that it was possible to inquire. 

‘ Why, indeed? * said Mr. Noel, shaking his head. ‘ I 
know not; it is Mrs. Radcliffe*s doing. I believe she 
maintains that the sister is a good friend for Mistress 
Audrey. All I can say is that it is invariably the brother 
who talks to her/ 

I winced as his searching eyes rested for a moment 
on my face, being sure that the torturing jealousy which 
for the first time filled my heart must have been clearly 
visible. 

But Mr. Noel was always full of tact; there was no 
slightest reference to Audrey in his next remark. 

‘ Henry Brownrigg/ he said, ‘ thinks himself a fine 
gentleman, but I can only say that for all his London 
manners and his fine clothes he is but pinchbeck after 
all. The poorest statesman in Borrowdale would have 
had better breeding than to greet you in the fashion he 
did to-night/ 

* Sir/ I said, ‘ as a lad you always bade me to wait and 
to ask no questions, but I can wait no longer. I must 
and will try to unravel the mystery of my parentage/ 

‘ I still advise you to wait/ said Mr. Noel, thought- 
fully. ‘ Had there been any chance of discovering the 
truth do you not think it would have transpired in 
twenty years* time? Besides, what will you gain? It 
is pretty clear from the clothes in which you were found 
that you are of gentle birth, and to my mind it is clear 
that this ring shows that you were born in wedlock/ 

‘I was always grateful to you for holding that the 
4 


50 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ring was evidence/ I replied. e But no one else accepts 
it as evidence; even Mrs. Radcliffe, kind as she is, never 
admitted that it proved anything/ 

‘ Mrs. Radcliffe invariably takes the opposite side to 
any opinion of mine/ said Mr. Noel, smiling somewhat 
grimly. ‘ Her Protestant prejudice is too strong to 
allow her to put faith in anything I do, or in any con- 
clusion I draw/ 

There was a touch of bitterness in his tone at which 
one could not wonder, for what he said was true enough. 
Mrs. Radcliffe, though always civil to him, could not 
bring herself to trust him. They had lived under the 
same roof for twenty years, but in reality they knew 
little of each other, as both were lynx-eyed to detect the 
other’s faults, and somehow never succeeded in reaching 
that meeting-place of mutual interest which must be 
gained before heart can answer to heart. 

Our talk was interrupted just at this point. I felt a 
light touch on my arm which thrilled me through and 
through. There stood Audrey, looking more exquisite 
than ever in the pale moonlight. 

‘What grave discourses are you having?’ she ex- 
claimed, merrily, yet speaking low for fear of disturbing 
Sir Nicholas. ‘ Come into the hall and let us roast our 
chestnuts and see what fortune lies before us. Zinogle 
and some of the others are playing at bob apple and the 
sight would make even a Quaker laugh/ 


CHAPTER VI 


Recollections of Michael Derwent ( continued ). 

During the next few days Sir Wilfrid kept me hard 
at work, and it was not until Sunday that I again had a 
chance of seeing Audrey. After service, as we came out 
of Crosthwaite Church, I had the good fortune to over- 
take her, and while Sir Wilfrid walked with Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe it fell to my share to carry Audrey’s Prayer-book 
for her and to escort her to the landing-place. It was 
then that I was able to tell her of our old foster-mother’s 
invitation to spend the following day with her at 
Grange; and Audrey, who had a great love for the place 
where some of the happiest days of our childhood had 
been spent, quickly gained her mother’s permission, 
and it waa arranged that Dickon and I should call for 
her in the boat early in the morning if the weather 
permitted, and that we should spend a long day with 
Anne Fisher at Grange Farm. 

Poets have sung dismal ditties about November, but 
as a matter of fact that particular November morning 
when we set out on our expedition was the most beauti- 
ful day conceivable. The sun had just dispersed the 
thick mist which had shrouded Derwentwater, but here 
and there on the side of Skiddaw foam-like wreaths still 
lingered. Causey Pike had but lately thrown back its 
silvery veil, and now rose radiant in the morning sun- 
shine, a light sprinkling of snow on its summit, which 
contrasted with the golden-brown bracken on Catbells; 


52 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


while the thickly-wooded shore, with its dark green fir 
trees and golden beeches and russet oaks, fast thinning 
after the recent gales, made a perfect setting to the 
glassy stillness of the water. 

Audrey sat in the stern, closely wrapped in a cloak 
of Lincoln green cloth, and wearing a little Puritan 
hood in black velvet bordered with fur which suited her 
vastly well. 

c Have you heard any news ? 9 she asked, anxiously. 

‘ Nothing certain/ I replied. ‘ Sir Wilfrid heard 
last night in Keswick that there were some that had 
seen the Prince of Orange embark at Brill on Wednes- 
day, and that the Princess had been there to take leave 
of him and wish him God-speed. But this may he 
mere idle gossip. It is thought he will land here 
in the North. I only wish we had a chance to see 
him/ 

‘ They say he hath a sour temper/ said Audrey, hut 
that he is all for toleration. In any case he must he 
better than King James, who seems the most cruel- 
hearted bigot that ever wore the crown. Well, let us 
talk no more of such vexed questions. Have you suc- 
ceeded yet in your quest? J 

‘ No/ I replied; ‘ hut to-day I mean to question Anne 
Fisher more closely, and Dickon hath been showing me 
the exact spot in Borrowdale where he and Sir Wilfrid 
rescued me/ 

‘ You must show it to me/ said Audrey, eagerly; ‘ I 
never understood precisely where it was. Let us come 
there first, for Anne will be busy making ready the 
dinner, and will not have time to talk to us yet/ 

Accordingly we left Dickon and the boat at Lowdore, 
and made our way along the mule track to Grange, 
paused just to greet our foster-mother at the farm, and 
then wandered into Borrowdale, making our way along 
the riverside and talking as friends talk when they have 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


53 


been parted for a long time and have great arrears to 
make up. 

At last we came to the place where, not far from the 
Bowder Stone, the river, after a broad, shallow reach, 
grows somewhat narrower, and without much difficulty 
I found my way again to the old hollow oak which 
Dickon had pointed out to me. Here, some three years 
after my birth, they had discovered the remains of an 
old cloak much weather-stained 'and covered with mil- 
dew, but with a ribbon torn from it in one place, which 
Anne Fisher stoutly maintained was without question 
the ribbon which had bound the ring about me. 

‘And where did Dickon and Sir Wilfrid find you?* 
said Audrey. 

‘ Close to the river, just by this birch tree, roaring, 
they say, at the top of my voice/ 

‘ What hard hearts they must have had who deserted 
you/ she exclaimed. ‘ They can have been only hire- 
lings. I wonder whether those who found the cloak 
searched for other things hidden in the tree/ 

‘Let us come and look/ I said, turning back to the oak. 

Nothing, however, was to be seen, and, giving up the 
search, we sat down to rest and chat; and, truth to tell, I 
was too happy in the present and too full of dreams 
for the future to care much about what had happened 
twenty years ago. 

‘ Look at this ant ! 5 exclaimed Audrey, laughing. ‘ It 
is toiling along with a grain almost as large as itself. 
There it goes down the crack by that large stone. Here 
comes another and another; we must be on the high- 
road to an anthill/ 

With a mischievous smile she tried to lift the big 
stone, but it was too heavy. 

‘You will cause a terrible commotion in that ant 
kingdom/ I said, remonstratingly. 

‘ Never mind/ she said, laughing. ‘ They must have 


54 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


their revolutions just as we do. Now please enact the 
Prince of Orange, and let me see what is going on in 
that world below/ 

I tore up the big stone from the moss and earth in 
which it was embedded. The ants scurried away in all 
directions, but we scarcely heeded them, for the sun 
glinted on something bright and shining; it was the 
gold setting of an oval miniature which lay there un- 
harmed in the earth, lifting it up eagerly and rubbing 
the mould from the glass, I saw the face of a beauti- 
ful girl with soft brown curls lying on her white 
shoulders; the face somehow seemed familiar to me. 

I turned to Audrey in amazement. 

‘ Who is it? 9 I said. ‘ How do I know these features 
so well ? 9 

‘ Why/ said Audrey, looking gravely first at the 
miniature and then at me, ‘ there can he no doubt what- 
ever about it. This must be your mother; you are her 
living image, only with the strength of a man in your 
look. See, the face is rather short, the cheek-bones 
somewhat high, and the moulding of mouth and chin 
and the very bright eyes — why, they are precisely like 
yours/ 

We turned the miniature over and searched anxiously 
for any trace of a name, but there was none, nor could 
we imagine why the miniature should have been hidden 
in this extraordinary fashion; it almost looked as though 
the hirelings who had deserted me had some special 
dislike to my mother. 

We went back to Grange Parm to show the treasure 
we had discovered to Anne Fisher, and she, too, instantly 
recognised the likeness which had struck us both. Un- 
luckily it conveyed to her mind an idea which had not 
occurred to me. When Audrey was out looking at her 
old friends the pigeons my foster-mother drew me aside 
to give me a word of counsel. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


55 


‘Keep this quiet, my lad/ she said, ‘for I fear it 
points more to your mother’s shame than anything yet 
has done. No doubt it was the old story of a wily- 
tongued deceiver, and maybe she died at your birth, 
and her family put away all remembrance of her and 
left you to perish. Depend upon it, lad, there’s shame in 
the story, and you would do well not to search further.’ 

‘ Would you have me believe anything evil of such an 
one as this?’ I asked, looking again at the lovely face, 
which was as guileless as the face of a child. 

‘ Ah, lad, you are young,’ she said. ‘ God knows life 
is harder for such as have a face like this, for they’ll 
have sair temptations, and willna find it easy faring. 
But don’t take it too heavily. You are not the first 
that has been horn nameless and yet has done good work 
in the world.’ 

But though she spoke cheeringly my heart sank down 
like lead, for I thought of Audrey, and felt more than 
ever cut off from her, and I thought of Henry Brown- 
rigg with a sort of dumb fury. Then I remembered the 
ring and the motto, and felt certain that at any rate 
my mother must have been deceived by some mock 
marriage; to think otherwise of that exquisitely pure 
face was impossible. It was my father who had betrayed 
her and forsaken me and tossed aside the very picture 
of the girl whose life he had ruined. For what had I 
found this miniature if not to aid me in tracing him out 
and calling him to account? The truth should he 
dragged from him, cost what it might, and my mother 
should he avenged. 

‘ Come, my lad/ said Anne Fisher; ‘ dinner is ready. 
Will you go and tell Mistress Audrey? 9 

I strode out of the houseplace, and, standing in the 
porch, saw that Audrey was surrounded by pigeons, 
which she was feeding. One that was specially tame had 
perched on her shoulder and was eating from her hand. 


56 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ There, you greedy birds/ she cried; ‘ you have eaten 
every grain, now fly away and let me go to my dinner/ 

She clapped her hands and away flew the pigeons, 
their white wings flashing in the sunlight, and making 
a vivid streak of brightness against the purple grey 
heights of Maiden Moor. 

‘Oh, Mic! ’ she said, ‘how good it is to he here, 
away from all cares and anxieties! What pleasant 
summer visits we used to have here! I could almost 
wish we were just children again. By the bye, I never 
heard what you thought of Henry Brownrigg. Has he 
not grown into a fine-looking man? 9 

‘ Very/ I said, drily. 

‘ He is so tall and strong/ she said, reflectively; ‘ I do 
like those great big men/ 

‘ Yes, women always admire that “ prize ox ” kind of 
man/ I said, with a touch of bitterness, which did not 
escape her. 

‘ Now, Michael/ she said, laughing, ‘ I am not going 
to allow you to make an eternal feud out of a schoolboy 
quarrel. You two will have to be good friends now that 
you have come back to the North. Don’t be cross; 
come and be fed/ 

It was impossible to resist her coaxing, merry face; 
we went into the house-place, and Anne Fisher feasted 
us with all the favourite dishes of our childhood, be- 
ginning with eggs and bacon and ending with girdle 
cakes. 

It was dusk when Dickon and I rowed Audrey back to 
Lord’s Island; I remember that she sang, as she sat in 
the stern, that quaint old song which begins, ‘ Now, 
Bobin, lend to me thy bow.’ Her voice was quite un- 
trained, but sweet and clear as a bird’s. When she had 
left us it seemed to me that all the brightness had gone 
out of my world. 

‘ Let us come to Keswick/ I said to Dickon. ‘ Sir 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


57 


Wilfrid will want to hear if any news has come, and I 
must speak to Zinogle/ 

The German fiddler lived in the market-place in a 
house not far from that of Sir J ohn Banks. He owned 
a couple of the upper rooms, and had no belongings in 
the world but his fiddle and his dog; also, perhaps, I 
should add his pipe, which was, he always maintained, 
the best of companions. 

I found him as usual in an atmosphere of music and 
tobacco, and he seemed not a little interested in the 
miniature when I showed it to him. He agreed with 
Anne Fisher that it would be as well were I not to men- 
tion it to people in general. 

c There is one person, though, that ought to see it/ 
he remarked, ‘ and that is Mr. Noel. Show it to him 
and see what he says/ 

‘ Yes, I will show it him/ I replied; ‘ he always main- 
tained that the ring was a wedding-ring/ 

‘ Did it ever strike you that he perhaps knows more 
than he says?* asked Zinogle, his keen eyes looking 
right into mine. 

‘ If he knew the truth surely he would tell it/ I said; 
‘but no, it is impossible. From the way in which he 
was talking only the other night it*s clear to me that he 
knows nothing. He was saying that if it had been 
possible for the truth to come out it would surely have 
transpired in twenty years/ 

‘ H*m/ grunted Zinogle, ‘ you might take that saying 
in two ways. He is deep and subtle. I still think 
he knows the truth; and if he learnt it in the confes- 
sional, why, his tongue is tied. That must be a bad 
predicament for an honest man, to know, perhaps, of 
some atrocious wrong and to be unable to speak and save 
the innocent/ 

‘ The whole system is an accursed one/ I said, hotly. 
‘ Ha! what is that hubbub in the market-place? * 


58 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Such a shouting and cheering and huzzaing as I had 
never heard in quiet little Keswick rent the air. We 
thrust our heads out of the window, and saw that the 
people were crowding round a rider who had drawn rein 
at the town hall, a quaint old timber building in the 
centre of the square. 

‘ The Prince must have landed! J cried Zinogle, and 
with one accord we rushed down stairs and out into the 
market-place, there to hear the welcome tidings that on 
the morning of the 5th the Prince of Orange had 
landed at Brixham in Devonshire, and that King J ames 
would no longer be free to trample the laws of England 
under foot. 

We had expected the landing to be in the north, and 
ever, since the trial of the seven bishops, preparations for 
a rising had been silently going on under the leadership 
of the Earl of Devonshire, the Earl of Derby, and my 
Lord Lumley. It was something of a disappointment 
that Brixham should have chanced to be the landing- 
place, but as there was no question of fighting, at any 
rate at present, we Cumbrians worked off our excitement 
in other ways, and there was a hurried climbing of 
Skiddaw to kindle the beacon, which had last been fired 
when the seven bishops were acquitted in the summer. 

The night was clear and frosty, and the beacon blazed 
gloriously in the still air, bearing its good tidings into 
many a distant dale and town. One old veteran, who 
had climbed as lustily as any of us youngsters, stood 
with his white head uncovered, and solemnly gave 
thanks to God for having sent a deliverer to the nation, 
and then Zinogle, who for all his comic vein had a 
grave side as well to his character, played on his fiddle 
the first line of the Old Hundredth, and we all fell in 
with his thought and sang the psalm which more than 
any other tends to deepen joy and quicken gratitude. 

Then came a race down the mountain at some peril 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


59 


to our necks, and after pushing our way through the 
thronged market-square, where many drunken revellers 
were shouting e Lero, lero, lillibulero,’ at the tops of 
their voices, Dickon and I made our way to the landing- 
place and rowed across the quiet water to St. Herbert’s 
Isle. There was a faint yellow light in Audrey’s bed- 
chamber, and it looked pale as a primrose in contrast 
with the red glare of the beacon, which still blazed on 
Skiddaw. I wondered much how the news would affect 
the divided household on Lord’s Island. 


CHAPTER VII 


As Michael rowed past Lord’s Island the old knight 
and his chaplain were sitting by the hearth in the study, 
talking gravely over the great event of the day. That 
unwelcome red glare in the sky, that blazing beacon on 
Skiddaw, had roused even gentle old Sir Nicholas to 
think anxiously of the future which lay before them. 
But it was not so much of the country in general as of 
his own estate and his own private affairs that Sir Nich- 
olas thought. 

‘ 1 fancy however things turn they will not molest 
me/ he said. ‘ They know that I meddle not in affairs 
of State, and that for the last year I have not even 
quitted the island. But when my brother succeeds to 
the estate matters will be very different. He has ever 
been headstrong and over-much embroiled in plots and 
politics. If this scheme of my daughter-in-law’s for 
marrying Audrey to young Mr. Brownrigg is carried out 
I foresee nothing but storms in the future.’ 

‘ That is too true,’ said Mr. Noel, thoughtfully. c It 
would be to Henry Brownrigg’s interest to get your 
brother out of the way and seize on the estate in his 
wife’s name. Oh, he is quite capable of that, for he is 
ambitious and a lover of money, besides being as bitter 
a Protestant as ever I met. If he had his way every 
Catholic would be driven from the land. Heaven grant 
that pretty Mistress Audrey may never be his wife.’ 

‘ Amen to that,’ said Sir Nicholas, feebly rubbing his 
thin hands. 4 It is the wish of my heart to see her 


HOPE THE HERMIT 6j 

wedded to young Cuthbert Salkeld, who is not only 
rich, but a good Catholic and of excellent character. 
Her mother is bitterly opposed to it, however, and will 
not hear of her being given in marriage to any but a 
Protestant/ 

‘ How Mrs. Kadcliffe can be hoodwinked by such an 
overbearing and pragmatical piece of conceit as Henry 
Brownrigg passes my understanding/ said Mr. Noel. 
‘ But she can see no fault in him. And what is more, if 
she encourages his suit, I fear Mistress Audrey will be 
won over, for no doubt he is a fine figure of a man, and 
that goes for much with one so young. If it be indeed 
out of the question to urge the marriage with Mr. Sal- 
keld, how would it be to take advantage of Michael Der- 
went’s perfectly evident devotion to your granddaugh- 
ter? ’ 

‘Eh? What? Does the wind sit in that quarter?’ 
said Sir Nicholas, with some surprise. ‘ I knew they 
were good friends, but never guessed that the boy 
dreamt of such a thing.’ 

‘ He has said naught,’ said Mr. Noel, ‘ but I have 
known him all his life, and can read his face like a 
book. He is very much in love — there is no doubt of 
that.’ 

‘ But his birth, Father, and his fortune? In no way 
is he a fitting match for my granddaughter.’ 

‘ Oh, as for his birth, that is indeed a mystery,’ said 
Mr. Noel; ‘ but everything pointed to his being of gentle 
lineage. As for money, it is true that he hath but what 
he earns, yet I am much mistaken if he does not make 
his mark in the world. Then, although he is a Prot- 
estant, and for that reason might prove acceptable as a 
son-in-law to Mrs. Kadcliffe, he is no bigot, as we have 
good reason to know. Indeed, I am sure he would be 
the very one to help and shelter any Catholic, if he 
deemed him hardly dealt with by the Government. 


62 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


There is a generosity about Michael Derwent which is 
wholly wanting in such men as Henry Brownrigg.' 

* Yes, yes, they are poles apart, and I like the lad well 
enough. Still, it is not such a match as a Radcliffe 
might have looked for/ 

The priest's face bore a curious expression; one might 
almost have fancied that there was a momentary gleam 
of humour in his grey eyes. He turned away, and be- 
gan to pace the room restlessly. ‘ Of course, the other 
match would be in every way more desirable/ he said; 
‘ young Salkeld is a good Catholic and will succeed to 
the title, but that seems out of the question during Mrs. 
Radcliffe's lifetime. The point now is whether, to get 
rid of the Brownrigg incubus, it might not be worth 
while to encourage Michael Derwent/ 

‘ I leave it to you/ said Sir Nicholas, with a sigh. 
* Such things are better managed by active and obser- 
vant people. I am merely a recluse. You love Audrey, 
and have her best interests at heart. Act as it seems 
well to you. For my own part, I have always liked 
Michael/ 

Mr. Noel was quite ready to echo these last words, 
for his affection for his pupil was perfectly genuine. 
Nevertheless, he had no scruples as to using Michael in 
whatever way seemed best for the general furtherance 
of his well-meaning schemes; and it was quite possible, 
as he now foresaw, that, after encouraging his passion 
for Audrey, circumstances might arise which would 
make it politic to reverse these tactics. 

There were so many things which might alter the 
whole state of affairs. Not only private happenings, 
but the troubled and uncertain state of the country, 
made it a most interesting problem for the priest's brain 
to busy itself with. He sat musing over it in silence. 
The Salkeld marriage was the game he had actually 
planned, but his opponent's play had necessitated a new 


HOPE THE HERMIT 63 

development, in which Michael for a time was to he the 
piece brought into action. 

He, meanwhile, quite unconscious of all this, was sup- 
ping with Sir Wilfrid and discussing the great news of 
the day, while Audrey and her mother, having watched 
the beacon die out and darkness settle over Derwent- 
water, lingered a little over their preparations for the 
night to talk over the news as it affected their own 
particular neighbourhood. 

‘ The Lowthers will sleep more peacefully now/ said 
Mrs. Radcliffe, with a smile. e And Henry Brownrigg 
will feel that his star is in the ascendant. He is pretty 
sure to get promotion if the Prince’s cause triumphs, as 
there is every reason to think it will.’ 

‘ That will just suit him; his sister says he is very 
ambitious,’ said Audrey, laughing. ‘ What will they 
make him, I wonder? He certainly loves ordering other 
folk about.’ 

Her mother glanced at her a little anxiously. Did 
this frank criticism of Henry Brownrigg hide any deeper 
feelings? She could not feel sure; and her heart mis- 
gave her a little when Audrey began a graphic descrip- 
tion of her happy day in Borrowdale, and of how they 
had discovered the miniature. 

‘ Poor Michael! ’ said Mrs. Radcliffe. ‘ This makes 
his case even worse. There can he no doubt now of his 
mother’s disgrace. To-morrow, Audrey, we will go over 
to Millbeck Hall and see the Brownriggs. Henry is sure 
to have the latest news as to the Prince’s progress, and I 
have great confidence in his opinion. Young as he is, 
I would take his judgment before Sir Wilfrid’s.’ 

To this Audrey was quite ready to agree. To her 
there seemed no comparison between Sir Wilfrid and 
that paragon of perfection at Millbeck Hall. Undoubt- 
edly she was much flattered by Henry Brownrigg’s at- 
tentions, and honestly admired his splendid physique; 


6 4 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


nor was she altogether unaware of a certain throbbing 
of the heart and quickening of the pulses at the very 
mention of his name. But these details were nothing 
to Father Noel; he rated them at precisely what they 
were worth, and with a shrug of his shoulders calmly 
continued his game of human chess. 

The peaceful English Revolution meanwhile went 
quietly on its course. The Prince of Orange, who had 
come over at the pressing invitation of the leading men 
among Tories and Whigs, and worthy representatives of 
the Church of England and the Nonconformists, was 
naturally acknowledged with little delay by the nation. 
York and Newcastle, and indeed city after city, declared 
in his favour, and King James found that his tyranny 
had wholly alienated the hearts of the people. The 
spies sent by him to find out wdiat was doing in the West 
took his money and quietly joined the Prince, so that it 
was almost impossible for the King to get any true idea 
of his son-in-law’s movements. He could only learn 
that day after day one great man after another joined 
his army, the cruellest cut of all being, perhaps, the 
desertion of Lord Churchill and the Duke of Grafton, 
who joined the Prince at Axminster, Churchill quitting 
the King’s army at night, and explaining by letter that 
he could not fight against the Protestant cause. 

Then followed negotiations which might very possibly 
have left James the crown, but made for ever out of the 
question that despotic authority which he desired. Un- 
fortunately for himself, he had all his father’s duplicity 
without his virtues, and while treating with the Prince 
of Orange he was also negotiating with France and en- 
deavouring to set up his despotism once more by French 
aid. 

At last, his plight growing desperate, he resolved upon 
flight. Having previously contrived to send the Queen 
and her child to France, he left Whitehall on the tenth 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


65 


of December disguised as the servant of Sir Edward 
Hales, and favoured by the darkness, for it was three 
o’clock in the morning. 

Thinking to plunge the country into difficulties, he 
flung the Great Seal into the river, and escaped in a 
miserable fishing-boat which had been provided by his 
companion. But unluckily. Sir Edward Hales was 
recognised by some fishermen at Feversham, who took 
upon themselves to check his progress, and the King, 
thus caught in the act of running away, was ignomini- 
ously brought back again, to the general embarrassment 
of the people and their leaders, who were at a great loss 
to know what to do with him. Some were for keeping 
him prisoner, and it became clear that while he re- 
mained at Whitehall disorders would be certain to arise 
in London. It was at length suggested to him # that he 
should retire to Rochester, and from thence in a few 
days he once more escaped by night, and going on board 
a frigate in the Medway, was swiftly borne, as the people 
would have said, f by a Protestant wind ’ to Ambleteuse, 
from which place he made his way to St. Germain’s. 

5 


CHAPTER VIII 


Recollections of Michael Derwent 

All through December and January there was scarcely 
anything hut talk of public events, and Sir Wilfrid 
kept me hard at work, so that, what with writing of 
letters and attending conferences at Cockermouth and 
elsewhere, I began to despair of ever seeing Audrey 
again. Henry Brownrigg had just been promoted to 
the office of Under-Sherilf, and it maddened me to think 
that he might see her every day if it so pleased him. 
However at last my chance came, and his, thanks to 
providence — or as I sometimes fancy to the machina- 
tions of Father Noel — was for the time lost. 

It came about in this fashion. 

There lived at Baby Castle in the county of Durham 
one Sir Christopher Vane — son of the late Sir Harry 
Vane, commonly known as the patriot — and he had 
arranged to hold high festival at Raby late in February, 
in honour of a family event it was said, though prob- 
ably not without reference to the great change which 
had taken place in public affairs. 

Sir Christopher had at one time held office under 
King James; the Sovereign’s illegalities had, however, 
so disgusted him that he gave up the untenable theory 
that the King could do no wrong, and in the reaction 
went back to the faith of his fathers and became a 
strong advocate of freedom. It was therefore both con- 
venient and seemly that his change of front should be 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


67 


generally known, and by inviting a host of friends and 
showing them a princely hospitality he managed very 
neatly to effect his object. 

Sir Wilfrid Lawson being an old friend of the Vanes 
was among the first to be invited, and I thought my- 
self in luck’s way to get the chance of accompanying 
him, specially when I learnt through old Zinogle, who 
chanced to be in Cockermouth to play at a wedding, 
that Audrey and her mother had also received an invita- 
tion, — owing I believe to some past connection between 
the Vanes and the Radcliffes. 

We left Isel Hall just after the news had arrived that 
the Convention had offered the crown to the Prince of 
Orange, and the Princess Mary, and that they had been 
proclaimed King and Queen at London and West- 
minster. Great therefore were the rejoicings at Cocker- 
mouth, where what with church bells ringing, and the 
people half wild with joy to think that the suspense 
and uncertainty were ended, and the reign of toleration 
beginning, we found some difficulty in making our way 
through the thronged streets; for — let alone the crowd 
— there were scores of folk that wanted a word with Sir 
Wilfrid, he being much beloved in all the neighbour- 
hood. However at length we were riding along the 
quiet shore of Bassenthwaite and as dusk fell found 
ourselves once more in the familiar little market town 
of Keswick. We lay that night at the Royal Oak, where 
Zinogle came to see me, bringing me word that Henry 
Brownrigg was to accompany the ladies from Lord’s 
Island on their journey early the next morning. This 
was not very cheerful hearing, and I lay awake a whole 
hour brooding over the news. Nevertheless things 
looked brighter by daylight, and having made a hearty 
breakfast I set out with my patron in excellent spirits, 
full of hope that we might fall in with Audrey upon the 
road. 


68 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


We had only just quitted the town when suddenly a 
man sprang forward from the shelter of a great beech 
tree and, waving a paper in his hand to attract attention, 
called to Sir Wilfrid to draw rein. 

‘ There’s mischief afoot, sir/ he panted breathlessly. 
‘ Of your charity bear this to the Under -Sheriff — they 
say he has ridden to Stable Hills Farm.’ 

Before Sir Wilfrid could put a single question to him 
the man had thrust the letter into his hand and had 
dashed away into the wood as though dreading detec- 
tion. 

‘ Here’s a pretty state of things,’ said Sir Wilfrid. 
‘ Mischief afoot already and the King and Queen but 
just proclaimed! We must lose no time, Michael, but 
carry this news to Henry Brownrigg. Did you ever see 
that fellow before ? ’ 

‘ I never caught a full sight of his face, his hat was 
over his eyes, sir,’ I replied. ‘ But his way of speaking 
was not Cumbrian. Now I think of it, his speech 
savoured a little of that Irish cobbler that Father Noel 
nursed through the small-pox.’ 

‘Ah, I remember hearing about that,’ said Sir Wil- 
frid, ‘ though I never saw the cobbler. Father Noel has 
as kind a heart as any man in the county. Pity he is 
on the wrong side.’ 

We rode as fast as might be to Stable Hills Farm, 
which was on the eastern side of Derwentwater and 
within a stone’s throw of Lord’s Island. It was here 
the Badcliffes stabled their horses. 

In front of the farm there was a little group which I 
eagerly scanned. Audrey, looking wonderfully fresh 
and winsome in her brown riding skirt and broad 
plumed hat, was already mounted on her chestnut mare, 
Firefly; and Henry Brownrigg was in the act of help- 
ing Mrs. Radcliffe to her pillion behind one of the 
serving-men, while Father Noel stood talking to William 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


69 


Hollins the farmer. He glanced round quickly as we 
approached and I am sure I saw a twinkle of amused 
satisfaction in his eye as we drew rein. 

‘ I am glad to have caught you before you started, 
Mr. Brownrigg/ exclaimed Sir Wilfrid, after saluting 
the ladies. ‘ Just as we rode out of Keswick a man 
thrust this letter for you into my hand and asked me to 
give it you with all speed, as mischief was brewing. 
What the fellow means I have no notion, nor was he a 
man I had ever seen before. He disappeared before I 
could question him, and perhaps the letter will explain 
itself/ 

Henry Brownrigg, with an important air which evi- 
dently amused Father Noel, slowly broke the seal and 
read the letter. As he read, his face darkened. He 
read the communication a second time more carefully 
and stood for a few minutes deep in thought, not un- 
conscious that all eyes were upon him, for he was the 
sort of man to find this a very soothing sensation to his 
self-love. 

f Well, there is no help for it/ he said, with a shrug 
of the shoulders, ‘ my duty calls me away, ladies; there 
is, I fear, mischief afoot and I shall not be able to escort 
you to Baby Castle. Be sure that I shall follow you, 
though, as soon as I can. Possibly to-morrow or the 
next day/ 

He handed the missive to Sir Wilfrid, who quite 
agreed with him that he must stay and inquire into the 
matter and courteously volunteered to take his place as 
escort to Mrs. Kadcliffe and her daughter. 

They were very glad to accept the suggestion, and 
Audrey, after saying a courteous word or two of regret 
to Henry Brownrigg and hoping that the business would 
not detain him long, was very soon chatting gaily 
enough with me, nor could I read in her face any sign 
that she was grieving over the absence of the Under- 


70 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Sheriff. I built a great deal on this — foolishly enough 
— not haying learnt yet that women have a most ex- 
traordinary power of hiding their true feelings, and 
that the most skilful of all actresses is a maiden who 
would fain conceal her love story from the public 
gaze. 

I shall never pass along the Penrith road without 
remembering our cheery ride that day. 

‘ Isel Hall has taught you how to talk/ she said once 
with a roguish glance in my direction. ‘ The silent 
Cambridge graduate is no more! ’ 

And how was I to sum up audacity enough to tell her 
the truth, that it was not the time at Isel which had 
taught me, hut just the delight of being in her presence 
which, since that first bewildering November afternoon 
when we had met once more on Lord’s Island, had 
changed my whole world, and made me for the first time 
feel that I truly lived. Without her it was mere exis- 
tence, but with her life indeed. 

We broke the journey at the most comfortable of the 
wayside inns, arriving at Staindrop, the village close to 
Raby Castle, just as the sun was setting on the second 
day. 

The broad village street was unusually lively, and as 
we passed the old grey-towered church Audrey drew my 
attention to a group of pretty children standing by the 
wall, and with a laugh tossed them some comfits from a 
little embroidered hag hanging at her side. 

‘I warrant you they envy us, these chubby little 
mortals/ she said. ‘ And yet, to tell the truth, I would 
far liefer dismount and play with them than ride on to 
this stately place where we shall find only strangers.’ 

But spite of the shyness natural enough to one who 
was used to nothing hut country life, she gave a cry of 
delight when, as we rode up the rising ground, that 
splendid pile of massive towers and turrets and battle- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


7i 


mented walls came into view. The red sun was sinking 
like a glowing ball in the grey misty sky and a rosy 
glow rested on the castle — the pride of the neighbour- 
hood ever since the days of Canute. The place had been 
partially ruined and had been sold to the elder Sir Henry 
Vane by Charles I. According to the purchaser it had 
then been merely ‘ a hillock o ? stanes/ but judicious 
re-building had soon wrought a magical transformation 
and it is said King Charles considered that the splendid 
castle which he visited later on had been very cheaply 
obtained. Passing over the drawbridge and across a 
courtyard we rode into the actual castle itself, dismount- 
ing at the foot of the great staircase where Sir Christo- 
pher stood to receive his guests. He was a somewhat 
heavy-featured man, and I, naturally enough, expected 
the most formal of greetings from him, but as I made 
my bow and his eyes rested for a moment on my face 
a look of astonishment and a muttered ejaculation 
escaped him; however, quickly recovering himself, he 
turned again to speak with Mrs. Radcliffe, and it was 
not until the following day that I understood the mean- 
ing of the look of recognition which I had certainly 
seen in his eyes. 

Chancing to be early astir, I came across Sir Chris- 
topher in one of the corridors, and he, with a kindly 
greeting and a somewhat searching look, invited me to 
go with him into the walled garden at a little distance 
from the house. 

‘ I understand from Sir Wilfrid that you are his sec- 
retary/ he began, as we entered the garden. e I did not 
catch your name yesterday/ he glanced at me ques- 
tioningly. 

‘ I am called Michael Derwent, sir/ I replied. f But 
I have no real surname, being just a foundling. Sir 
Wilfrid rescued me twenty years ago in Borrowdale by 
the river side/ 


72 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


A most extraordinary look passed over Sir Christo- 
pher’s face. 

‘Do yon mean that he found you there deserted?’ 
he asked quickly. 

‘Yes, deserted and half dead with cold and hunger. 
Luckily he chanced to be out early that morning on a 
fishing expedition or it would have been all over with 
me.’ 

‘ And you have never found out anything of your 
parentage? ’ 

‘ Never, sir, though I would give the world to do so. 
I am in a miserable position now, and until I can find 
out the truth my career is sure to he more or less ham- 
pered.’ 

‘ Perhaps I can help you up to a certain point,’ said 
Sir Christopher cautiously. ‘ I recognised you in a mo- 
ment, for you are the living image of your mother.’ 

‘ You knew her, sir? ’ I asked eagerly, and after a 
moment’s reflection I drew out the miniature, which I 
had never ceased to wear since the day we had discov- 
ered it, and placed it in his hands. 

He looked at it with admiration but quite without any 
trace of special feeling; clearly my mother had been hut 
an acquaintance, and yet it set all my pulses throbbing 
at double time to think that he had once seen her and 
that he knew her story. 

‘ Is she still living? ’ I asked eagerly. 

‘ No,’ he replied, ‘ she died at your birth. Poor girl! 
she was only seventeen if I remember right.’ 

‘ Then it must have been my father who deserted me.’ 

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied, cautiously weighing 
his words. ‘ Your father was my friend. I understood 
that he meant to leave you in charge of some of the 
dalesfolk. I suppose he changed his mind.’ 

‘ At least tell me his name,’ I said with rage in my 
heart. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


73 


* I wish I could do so. But I was a mere lad at the 
time/ replied Sir Christopher, ‘ and my friend who was 
considerably older extorted a vow of secrecy from me .’ 

‘ I suppose he wronged my mother and then naturally 
enough desired to make an end of me/ I said with burn- 
ing cheeks. 

‘ No, no, it was not so bad as that/ said Sir Christo- 
pher. ‘ He may have neglected your mother, it is true; 
his passion was too vehement to last long, it burnt itself 
out in a few weeks. But he wedded her honestly 
enough in London, though at what church I dare not 
tell you. I was one of the witnesses myself however, 
and can set your mind at rest on that score/ 

I was silent for a minute trying to realise that the 
load which had so long oppressed me had suddenly 
been taken away and that the worst obstacle to my 
acceptance by Mrs. Radcliffe as Audrey’s suitor no 
longer existed. We passed a great hush of lavender 
about which a spider had been spinning its web, and 
now all wet with morning dew it sparkled in the sun 
like a dainty network of diamonds. No less brilliant 
was the dream castle I hastily reared upon these words 
of Sir Christopher’s. 

‘ Is my father still living, sir? ’ I asked after a pause. 

‘Yes, but it is many years since I saw him. And 
now I believe he is not in England. You wonder no 
doubt why it was that he deserted you since you were 
his rightful heir. I have no right to explain that mat- 
ter to you, but I will certainly communicate with him 
and let him know that I have come across you. He may 
yet acknowledge you — indeed I should think he would 
be glad to do so. There, let us say no more of the 
matter; I have perhaps already been ill-advised in speak- 
ing so freely.’ 

With a few kindly and hospitable words he left me to 
think over the astonishing news that he had told me, 


74 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and I might have paced up and down the garden paths 
for hours had I not been interrupted. There was a 
merry shout and a ringing child’s laugh; then, down the 
green alley in pursuit of a ball, ran a little imp of about 
seven years of age, hotly pursued by Audrey, who always 
dearly loved a good romp with children. 

‘ Neighbour, I’ve come to torment you — do as I do! ’ 
was her laughing greeting, and whether I would or no 
she dragged me into the game which, to the great de- 
light of little Will Yane, we continued until he was 
fetched away by one of the servants. 

e Why, ’tis as hot as midsummer! ’ said Audrey, her 
face all aglow with the fresh air and the exercise; ‘ come 
let us rest awhile in this arbour. What were you med- 
itating upon so solemnly when we came across you just 
now? ’ 

Then I told her of all that Sir Christopher had said, 
and her delighted sympathy made my heart beat fast. 
Audrey had a way of identifying herself with her friends 
and their interests which very few women possess. 
Many can give sympathy, but she gave her whole being 
and made you feel that she cared for your concerns 
almost more than you cared yourself. 

All this I understood afterwards, but in the glow of 
hope and excitement which filled my heart this morning 
it seemed to me that a whole new life was opening be- 
fore me and that all the wishes of my heart were going 
to he granted at once. Yet I dared not tell her yet of 
my love, though I longed to do so. For that it was 
surely best to wait until all things connected with my 
father had been made clear. The only thing that I 
ventured to do was to ask her to tell her mother what 
Sir Christopher had said, and later in the day Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe spoke very kindly to me about this, while Sir 
Wilfrid, who probably had some inkling as to my feel- 
ings towards Audrey, was full of congratulations and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


75 


earned my eternal gratitude by giving me almost un- 
limited freedom during our brief visit. 

But all things delightful must come to an end, and 
on the fourth evening of our stay there came a sudden 
eclipse of all satisfaction as far as I was concerned. 

There was dancing that night in the Baron’s Hall — 
one of the most magnificent rooms I have ever seen. 
All the wealth and beauty of the neighbourhood seemed 
gathered together beneath its vaulted roof, but Audrey 
with her child-like grey eyes and her wealth of golden- 
brown hair was the fairest of all the company — not the 
least of her charms being her wonderful simplicity. I 
heard one critical matron declare that for all her good 
looks she did not know how to use her charms and 
make the most of her advantages; but it was just in that 
very fact that her great charm lay. While other girls 
picked up a dozen coquettish tricks, and ogled every 
man they encountered, Audrey went on her way with 
the light-hearted ease of a child of six years old, heartily 
enjoying fun and frolic and without I am sure one vain 
or selfish thought. It was wonderful to me that every- 
one was not at her feet. But my luck was still in the 
ascendant; she gave me three dances, and afterwards for 
a while we sat together in one of the window seats chat- 
ting of trivial things, and letting the golden hours slip 
by in a way which I bitterly regretted when it was too 
late. How was I to know that fate in the person of 
Henry Brownrigg was climbing the stair, entering the 
hall, and at that very moment seeking me out? 

I saw Audrey start a little, and glancing up saw the 
massive figure and handsome haughty features of the 
Under-Sheriff. He greeted Audrey effusively. 

‘Yes, I have been able at last to overtake you,’ he 
said, favouring me with a curt nod. ‘The rumour 
seems to have been a false alarm after all. By the bye, 
Derwent, Sir Wilfrid is looking for you. A messenger 


76 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


rode over to Keswick from Isel Hall just before I left 
and I was able to bring the letter on here. It seems 
that Lady Lawson is very ill/ 

I hastened to join my patron and found that Henry 
Brownrigg’s news was only too true. Sir Wilfrid was 
in great anxiety, and as it was a moonlight night and 
the roads in these parts were not so dangerous as in 
many other neighbourhoods, he had determined to lose 
no time but to press on at once. 

So ended the happiest days of my life. Hastily tak- 
ing leave of Audrey and her mother I hurried off to 
prepare for the journey, to change my black velvet 
costume for a sober travelling dress of brown tweed, to 
don a heavy frieze cloak warranted to keep the wearer 
warm even in our northern winter, and to pack Sir 
Wilfrid’s possessions for him. 

Sir Christopher took a kindly farewell of us and just 
at the last drew me aside to say in a low voice that he 
would not forget his promise to write to my father at 
the earliest opportunity. Then we rode out through 
the great door and across the drawbridge, and through 
the park with its bright stretches of white light and its 
inky shadows. The clock was striking ten when I 
turned to get one last look at the castle with its noble 
outlines, its orange-coloured lamps shining from every 
window, and its stately towers clearly defined against 
the pale sky. Would Audrey give a thought to me 
on this dreary night journey? Something told me she 
would; and I rode on, cold and tired, and chafing under 
the thought that our gala days had come to so sudden 
an end; yet beneath it all was that comforting assur- 
ance which kept with me like a living presence all 
through the night. 


CHAPTER IX 


It was with a sense of great content that Henry 
Brownrigg watched his rival disappear from the Baron’s 
Hall. It was not easy any longer to despise Michael 
Derwent; he could not be bullied as in the old school 
days, and he had a way of entirely ignoring slights and 
snubs which recoiled upon the snubber, and was highly 
irritating. That the fellow had the presumption to 
love Audrey Radcliffe there was no doubt, but whether 
Audrey returned the feeling was fortunately quite un- 
certain, and Henry Brownrigg, who had his share of the 
wisdom of the serpent, checked the disparaging remark 
which was on his lips and made no allusion to Michael 
at all, but instead gave the girl an amusing account of 
the difficulties he had had to contend with in hunting 
up traces of the rumoured plot. 

Audrey was interested and not a little flattered by 
his way of talking to her; empty compliments would not 
have pleased her at all, but she felt the subtle charm of 
being deferred to and consulted by a man who knew so 
much of the world; and whereas Michael had never been 
able to awaken in her anything but the most sisterly 
friendship, this older man, with his fine physique and 
his carefully drawn plan of campaign, was able to lay a 
most successful siege upon her heart. 

Her pulses beat quickly when the following morning 
her mother called her aside just before the guests went 
to make ready for morning church. 

My child/ she said, ‘ Mr. Brownrigg has just asked 


78 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


me to give you to him in marriage. Tell me the truth: 
could you love him as a husband? ’ 

Audrey blushed and trembled. 

‘1 think I could, ma’am/ she said, c and yet — oh 
mother! must I wed him yet? I do not think I can 
leave you.’ 

e Dear child/ said her mother, ‘ there is no immediate 
haste, and indeed your marriage to such a man would 
be a great comfort to me. We cannot always be to- 
gether, dear heart, and as you well know my health is 
but uncertain.’ 

‘ Oh do not say that/ said Audrey, tears rushing to 
her eyes, ‘ I could never be happy without you, mother.’ 

Mrs. Radcliffe took the girl’s hand and held it 
caressingly. 

‘ Why, Audrey/ she said, ‘ it will not make me die a 
day sooner to speak of the possibility. And think what 
a load you will take from my heart if you can indeed 
accept Henry Brownrigg’s proposal of marriage. I 
should then be at rest about your future. But if I had 
to leave you in the old house with only your grand- 
father and Mr. Noel I should be anxious indeed for 
your well-being.’ 

‘ Then I will accept this offer of marriage/ said 
Audrey with great calmness, ‘ only do not let there be 
any haste as to the ceremony. If we are betrothed you 
would then feel happy about me? ’ 

‘ Quite happy/ said Mrs. Radcliffe, with a sigh of 
relief. will tell Mr. Brownrigg that he may speak 
with you after church. Run and dress quickly, my dear, 
or we shall keep the others waiting.’ 

Audrey in a whirl of excitement, half painful, half 
pleasureable, hastily put on her fur-bordered mantle and 
her broad, feathered hat; she also put on for the first 
time a dainty pair of French gloves which had been 
given to her at Christmas, and taking her large morocco- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


79 


bound prayer-book joined the other guests at the foot of 
the great staircase. She perceived directly that Henry 
Brownrigg was talking to Lady Vane, and stole a shy 
glance at her future husband who, in his purple coat, 
best lace cravat and huge periwig, looked a very fine 
gentleman indeed. Did she love him? Yes, there 
could certainly be no doubt as to that; she loved him 
with that blind admiration which is not the highest 
or the happiest form of love, but which, while it lasts, is 
undoubtedly most real. 

Like one treading on air she walked through the park 
to Staindrop church and side by side with her lover 
paced up the path between the graves which led to the 
stately building where according to tradition Canute 
had once worshipped. It was rich in monuments of 
the Nevill family and Audrey found herself drawn by 
a sort of fascination to the tomb of the fifth Earl of 
Westmoreland who, with his first wife on one side of 
him and his second wife on the other, lay with upturned 
face awaiting the resurrection where ‘ they neither 
marry nor are given in marriage/ 

There was a special thanksgiving for the happy set- 
tlement of the nation’s great difficulties, and for the 
first time the names of the new King and Queen were 
introduced in the prayers, upon which a strange thrill 
seemed to pass through the congregation; but Audrey 
observed that one sturdy-looking old gentleman rose 
from his knees and closed his prayer-book with a re- 
sounding thud, upon which a small school-boy tittered 
and the beadle advancing with his staff of office gave the 
offending lad a tap on the head, and would evidently have 
enjoyed applying the staff to the knees of the old man. 

Then followed the sermon, which it is to be feared 
Audrey did not hear at all, for her thoughts would keep 
wandering to the great event which was about to change 
her whole life. 


8o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


She remembered how greatly Michael would dislike 
her marriage with one who had always failed to under- 
stand him, and she wondered whether she should he 
able to make her husband and her foster-brother the 
good friends she would fain have had them to be. It 
never once occurred to her that Michael’s friendship 
had developed into, love, nor did she dream that while 
she sat there in Staindrop church wondering whether 
the revelation as to his parentage would in itself he 
sufficient to make Henry Brownrigg adopt a different 
tone to him, Michael was riding towards Penrith treas- 
uring up in his heart every word she had spoken to him 
at Raby Castle, and blind to the beauty of the landscape 
because of the inward vision of her face which con- 
tinually haunted him. 

At the close of the sermon they sang the metrical 
version of the 15th psalm, and Audrey thought in her 
mind how well the words applied to her lover. 

Her confidence in Henry’s generosity was boundless, 
but it was hard to say upon what she grounded it. Had 
she analysed her impressions — which needless to say she 
never did — she might possibly have found that his size 
had something to do with it. She was one of those 
girls who reverence mere physical bulk; Skiddaw was 
much more to her than Causey Pike because though less 
beautiful it was larger. She loved old Rollo the Mas- 
tiff because of his huge proportions, trusting him far 
more than Fritz the terrier. And she had an instinct 
that a man of Henry Brownrigg’s build must be also 
large-minded and trustworthy. 

Her heart heat fast with happy excitement when on 
the way hack from church he confessed his love to her, 
and begged her to spare him a few minutes’ private 
talk in the walled garden, that he might plead his 
cause. 

They sat together in the very arbour in which she 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


81 


had sat with Michael when, but a few days before, he 
had told her of Sir Christopher’s revelation; where also, 
though she little guessed it, he had been on the point 
of telling her of his love, but had choked back the 
words, determined that he would bide his time and have 
at least a name to offer the woman he loved. 

But Audrey had no leisure to think of her foster- 
brother at such a moment as this. For was not the man 
she loved and admired with her whole heart asking 
her to be his wife? 

She did not keep him long waiting for his answer, 
and in her heart there lurked no faintest shadow of 
doubt as to their future happiness. To Henry’s failings 
she was as yet altogether blind, and the mere fact that 
her mother liked him, and that Mr. Noel detested him, 
added piquancy to the whole affair and made her ready 
to champion him against all the world. Her heart 
burnt within her as she remembered that she had once 
heard Mr. Noel speak of him as an ambitious and selfish 
schemer. Well, there was a wise old proverb which 
said, ‘ We judge others by ourselves,’ and Audrey, who 
was no saint but had her share of elfish delight in teas- 
ing and baffling and making sport out of those who had 
displeased her, looked forward with no slight pleasure 
to an encounter with her old tutor on their return to 
Lord’s Island. 

Henry Brownrigg, kneeling beside her, saw the swift 
changes in her expressive face and wondered what they 
betokened. 

‘ What are your thoughts, sweetheart?’ he said, rais- 
ing her hand to his lips. ‘ Why do you frown? ’ 

Audrey broke into a merry laugh. 

‘ I was only thinking of my old tutor at home, — you 
know he was never one of your likers, but he will have 
to change his mind now.’ 

‘That priest?’ said Henry Brownrigg bitterly. 

6 


82 HOPE THE HERMIT 

‘ Don’t let him come betwixt ns, Audrey, for heaven’s 
sake.’ 

‘ Why, no, how could he do that?’ said Audrey con- 
fidently. ‘The day of his power has quite gone by; 
and depend upon it, when he really knows you he will 
like you.’ 

Henry Brownrigg shook his head. 

‘ Scarcely that, I think,’ he said with a bitter smile. 
‘ But after all we need not come across him much. 
When once we are wedded all will be well. I hate to 
think that till then you must be under a Papist’s roof.’ 

‘Why,’ said Audrey, a little startled at his tone. 
‘ How strangely you speak! You forget how dearly I 
love my grandfather. You speak of him as if he were 
no Christian! But it is because you do not know him. 
When you see how kind, how gentle, how full of charity 
he is you will not talk in that hard voice.’ 

Henry seemed about to speak but he checked himself 
and only smiled in a superior and rather patronizing 
way which in any other man Audrey would have deeply 
resented. 

Just now, however, she was in the blind stage of love; 
and after all how was it likely that she should trouble 
herself about such matters when for the first time she 
felt her lover’s strong arm round her, when she heard 
him lavishing upon her every endearing epithet, and 
began faintly to realise what it means to love and to be 
loved. 

Her face was radiant as they went slowly back to- 
gether to the Castle, there to receive her mother’s tender 
and happy greeting and the congratulations of those 
who had had the pleasure of guessing beforehand that a 
betrothal was imminent. 

Two days later, when the festivities at Raby came to 
an end, Audrey and her mother, attended of course by 
Henry Brownrigg, went on their homeward way as far as 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


83 


Penrith, where, according to previous arrangements, 
they were to spend a few weeks with some of Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe’s kinsfolk. The news of the betrothal was there- 
fore sent to Lord’s Island by a letter carried by one of 
the serving-men, a course which Mrs. Radeliffe greatly 
preferred to breaking the news herself to her father- 
in-law. 

She wrote dutifully and courteously, hut dwelt much 
on her satisfaction in seeing Audrey betrothed to one 
they had long known, a near neighbour, moreover, and 
one who held her own views as to religious matters. 

It pained her to hurt one so kindly as old Sir Nich- 
olas, but she must hold her own and bestow her daugh- 
ter as she thought best and in accordance with what 
would have been her father’s wishes. She had signed 
her name and was about to fold and seal the letter when 
an idea suddenly flashed into her mind, and taking up 
her pen once more she added a postscript. 

‘ It may be well to let Michael Derwent know of the 
betrothal,’ she wrote. tf Also all relatives and friends 
in the neighbourhood that come in your way.’ 

‘I fear the lad cared for her,’ she said to herself 
thoughtfully. c Audrey never seemed even to guess at 
it, but there were many things which pointed that way. 
Well, he is young — he will get over it. Yet I am sorry 
for him nevertheless.’ 

But just then the church bells began to ring for ser- 
vice, and not unnaturally Mrs. Radcliffe’s thoughts 
quickly left Michael Derwent and his trouble, and 
turned instead to a much more cheering idea. Wed- 
ding bells — the bells of St. Kentigern’s at Crosthwaite 
were pealing gaily, and down the churchyard path 
walked Audrey and Henry Brownrigg, 


CHAPTER X 


Recollections of Michael Derwent 

That Lady Lawson should have chosen that precise 
time for falling ill seemed to me hard lines, for to be 
forced to quit Raby Castle, to leave the coast clear for 
Henry Brownrigg just when my hopes were highest, 
seemed intolerable. As we rode on through the dismal 
night, I found myself wishing that my patron had been 
a less affectionate and anxious husband, or that he had 
been a rigid Sabbatarian, when no doubt we should have 
remained until Monday as Sir Christopher’s guests. 
Above all I wished myself a free agent, not a great man’s 
secretary, and at thought of the small discomforts of the 
situation I fell to remembering the injury my father 
had done to me in leaving me all these years to the 
mercy of fate. How cruelly unfair was the treatment 
he had dealt out to me in the past! And was it likely 
that he would be willing now to remedy the wrong as 
far as might be, and own me as his heir? Sir Christo- 
pher Yane would doubtless do what he could to urge 
this course upon him, but was it wise to hope much from 
a parent who in the past had proved himself so cold- 
hearted and callous? Surely I had been a fool to hope 
anything from such a man. 

Then back into my mind there came the remembrance 
of Audrey’s words in the arbour, how she had argued in 
her tender womanly way that he might be only too 
glad of a chance of righting the great wrong he had 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


85 


wrought years ago. And from her arguments I fell to 
thinking of the flush of excitement that had risen to her 
face, and the sweet sympathy of her eyes as I told her 
my tale. It was from such thoughts that Sir Wilfrid’s 
laughing voice recalled me. 

‘ Art asleep lad?’ he asked turning towards me with 
a smile. Three times have I spoken and never an 
answer can I get.’ 

I stammered an apology, hut he only laughed good- 
humouredly. 

‘ Hay, lad, ’tis easy to see that you left your heart be- 
hind you at Raby. And in truth were I your age I should 
have done the same. As to that pragmatical and hu- 
mourless Under-Sheriff, I scarce think you need fear him 
as a rival. The girl has surely wit enough to see through 
his pretensions, and to despise his vanity. Let us hut 
unearth this father of yours, and get you your rights, 
and I would hack you against ten Henry Brownriggs.’ 

There was something so comfortable and cheering in 
these words that my fears were for the time lulled, hut 
when late on the Sunday we reached Penrith and after a 
hearty supper went to bed, the fates were less kind to 
me, and all night I was pursued by a horrid vision of the 
Under-Sheriff twice as big as he was in real life. Every- 
where he followed me with that hateful superior smile 
of his, and everywhere he led Audrey like a child by 
the hand. 

‘ Only one can win in this game,’ he said to me with 
a sneer, ‘ and foundlings are handicapped.’ 

I raged at this, and could feel the blood tingling in 
my veins as in the old days at school when I had fought 
him. But what broke my heart was that Audrey turned 
and looked at me with her great grey eyes, and in them I 
read a sort of curiosity. How are you taking it? ’ the 
eyes seemed to say. ‘ Is it true, as my lover declares, 
that you really cared for me? ’ 


86 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


At that I rushed away from both pursuers, and throw- 
ing myself down beside the Derwent — for always Bor- 
rowdale formed the back-ground of my dreams — I fell 
a-sobbing and so woke up, shaken and exhausted and a 
prey to the most deadly depression. 

In very low spirits we went on our journey that Mon- 
day morning, but when we reached Isel Hall the presence 
of serious illness in the household drove out every other 
thought; indeed for days it was impossible to think of 
anything but of the shadow of death that hung over us 
like a pall. On the Thursday, however, this anxiety 
abated. Lady Lawson began to mend and the doctor 
no longer waited long hours in the house as though ex- 
pecting a deadly combat with the foe he was always 
trying to cheat of his prey, but rode back cheerfully to 
Cockermouth to see how it fared with his other patients. 

By the Friday morning we had settled down into the 
ordinary routine of work, and I was doing accounts in 
the library while Sir Wilfrid at the other side of the 
table was busy over some legal documents when a ser- 
vant entered and handed me a letter. I had not so 
many correspondents that I could long remain in doubt 
as to whom the letter was from, and indeed Mr. Noel’s 
handwriting was well known to me. 

I don’t know what instinct warned me, but in an 
instant I knew that the letter contained news of Au- 
drey’s betrothal to Henry Brownrigg. My heart 
seemed all at once to turn to stone; mechanically I broke 
the seal and read the letter. It was short and ran as 
follows: — 

‘My Dear Michael: 

I regret to say that we have received a letter from Penrith 
in which Mrs. Radcliffe tells Sir Nicholas that her daughter 
was betrothed to Mr. Brownrigg on Sunday last at Raby Castle. 
The marriage is highly distasteful to Sir Nicholas but he has 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


87 


no power to forbid it. I am anxious to see you if you are able 
to visit Lord’s Island within the next fortnight, and you will 
find us quite at leisure, for Mrs. Radcliffe will remain for two 
or possibly three weeks with her kinsfolk at Penrith. Sir 
Nicholas begs to be remembered to Sir Wilfrid Lawson. 

I remain, yours faithfully, 

Augustine Noel. 

Written at Lord’s Island, Derwent water. 

To Mr. Michael Derwent, 

Care of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 

At Isel Hall, near Cockermouth.’ 

I folded the letter, and taking np my qnill began to 
write on a scrap of paper that lay near me. To go on 
with my patron’s accounts was at that moment out of 
the question, yet the act of mechanically writing down 
any words which came to hand, helped me to control 
myself, kept me from yielding to that passion of despair 
which sweeps from the man who abandons himself to 
it all faith, all hope, all power of endurance. ‘ That way 
madness lies/ 

There was it is true not much sense in the disjointed 
letters and words I forced my pen to write on that blank 
sheet of paper, but for the time they availed, they tided 
me over the first horrible moments of agony, and gave 
me time to rally. After a while I found myself writing 
down some words of Shakspere’s which — I know not 
why — had floated through my brain. 

‘Love give me strength ! and strength shall help 
afford .’ 

To this thought of strength I clung like a drowning 
man to a plank. This disastrous love of mine which, 
it seemed, had been all a mistake, should not drag me 
down into those depths of despair and ruin which 
threatened to close above my head; I would wrest from 
it a strength which might yet fit me to serve Audrey in 
some far future. And with increasing steadiness I 


88 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


wrote again and again the words, * Love give me 
strength ! ’ as though they had been a charm. 

‘You have had news?’ said Sir Wilfrid, glancing at 
me. 

I handed him Mr. Noel's letter, and was grateful for 
his silence. When at length he did speak it was not to 
make any comment on the letter but to send me up to 
the withdrawing room on some errand — a task which I 
was glad enough to execute, though as I went up the 
long slippery flight of polished wooden steps I had an 
odd feeling that my limbs were not my own. 

Gaining the head of the staircase I started back, for 
coming to meet me I saw what for a moment I took to 
be a wraith. It was the figure of a young man dressed 
in brown and wearing a brown periwig; his face was 
quite colourless, his pale lips were set in a straight line, 
his eyes seemed as though they had looked into hell. 

The next moment I saw with a shock of astonishment 
that the wraith was nothing but my own reflection in a 
tall mirror that hung from the wall. 

‘ You shall at any rate play your part better than 
that! ' I muttered, with an angry glance at the reflec- 
tion. ‘ Is it for you to be looking like a love-sick swain 
in a penny ballad, when in half an hour you must be 
dining with all the household ? 9 

The thought of the smoking joint on the board made 
my stomach turn, and the dread of the curious eyes sent 
a cold shudder through me. But where was the use of 
stopping to think of such things? I delivered Sir Wil- 
frid's message and went down once more to him in the 
library. 

‘I have a letter for the Vicar of Crosth waite,' said 
my patron, glancing at me quickly as I took my place at 
the writing-table. ‘ It will be as well, I think, if you ride 
over with it this afternoon. You can sleep at Herbert's 
Isle and bring me back word as to the damage done by 


HOPE THE HERMIT 89 

Tuesday’s storm. This summer, if all is well, I think 
of enlarging the house there; you can talk matters oyer 
with the steward.’ 

I thanked him, and asked if there was any more writ- 
ing to he done. 

‘ Nothing more now,’ he replied. ‘ Start when you 
please; and look you, Michael! go and have a talk with 
that old tutor of yours, for he is a shrewd man. If I 
were you I would tell him all that you learnt from Sir 
Christopher Vane.’ 

I promised to do so and hurried away to my room in 
the pele tower, there to make ready for the ride to Kes- 
wick. 

Never had man a more kindly patron, and I knew well 
enough that the errand to Crosthwaite and the con- 
fabulations with the steward might very well have 
waited. It was nothing more than a device to give me 
a breathing space in which to regain my bearings. 

The pele tower was by far the most ancient part of 
Isel Hall; it stood at one corner of the battlemented 
house and my room was in the upper part of it. It was 
but sparsely furnished, but whatever it contained of 
interest was in some way associated with Audrey Rad- 
cliffe. Here I kept my few worldly possessions — the 
birds’ eggs we had collected together as children; the 
books we had shared; and one or two trifles of needle- 
work wrought by her hands years ago. Looking back 
now it seemed to me that there had never been a time 
in my life when I had not loved her; she had been mine 
from the beginning, mine years and years before this 
Under-Sheriff had ever seen her. Who was he that 
he should come betwixt us now? 

At that thought pain changed to a blind hatred and 
resentment that by contrast seemed for the time a relief. 
I hurried down the tower stairs at a headlong pace, sad- 
dled my horse and rode swiftly away from Isel with the 


go 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


thought of Henry Brownrigg ever present in my mind. 
Had she given herself to one more worthy of her I 
might have borne it patiently, hut that she should have 
been caught by the wiles of a man of fine presence and 
handsome features, seemed intolerable. For well I knew 
that Henry Brownrigg’s mind was of the narrowest, 
that all his petty prejudices would ere long irritate her 
large-minded nature, that his insufferable conceit and 
fussiness would chafe Audrey as nothing else could have 
done. Respectable he might be, but it was with the 
heartless Pharisaical respectability that only repulses, 
and it sickened me to think that Audrey should be tied 
for life to such an one. 

We were past Cockermouth now, and as we galloped 
along by the shore of Bassenthwaite, the fresh air and 
the exercise invigorated me, yet at the same time seemed 
to fan the fire of raging hatred that burned in my heart* 
My chief hope was that he might have returned to Mill- 
beck Hall, that we might casually meet, and that I 
might have the chance of picking a quarrel with him 
and calling him out. It would surely not be hard to 
find some pretext for fighting? I knew his haunts in 
Keswick pretty well, and that evening I would do my 
best to make a duel inevitable. 

Having left Sir Wilfrid’s letter at the Crosthwaite 
Vicarage I turned my horse’s head towards the little 
market town, still brooding over my schemes with re- 
gard to Henry Brownrigg, when suddenly a mischievous 
lad in a smock frock leapt out of the hedge with a shrill 
war-whoop which terrified Hotspur and sent him tear- 
ing down the lane at full gallop. I had been riding 
carelessly with slack reins and now found it impossible 
to stop the horse. On we rushed at lightning speed, 
when to my horror I saw a little troop of children filing 
out of a dame-school at the side of the road; they paused 
and looked with stupefied faces at the runaway horse; 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


9 * 


in another moment we should he upon them. With a 
desperate effort I dragged at the right rein and put 
Hotspur at the hedge; he just cleared it, while I lost my 
seat and was thrown violently to the ground. How long 
I lay there stunned I have no idea, probably not many 
minutes, but I seemed to wake up in a quite unknown 
world. 

I was lying on a smooth lawn in a garden; close by, 
a very neat, box-edged path led through a vista of bare 
and gnarled apple-trees, and walking up the path came 
a soberly dressed old gentleman whose face was the most 
peaceful it has ever been my lot to see. 

‘ I must have died/ I thought to myself; ‘ these must 
be the “ gardens and the gallant walks ” the hymn 
speaks of. That is how men look in heaven, quiet and 
kindly and with no shadow of care and self-seeking; 
yet the cut of his doublet might be better, there’s room 
for improvement there.’ 

The man with the peaceful face had drawn near by 
this time; he did not raise his hat or salute me in any 
way whatever, but just bent down and looked into my 
face. As for me I was still too much bewildered to wish 
to move or speak. 

Friend,’ he said at last, ‘ wilt thou walk to my house 
and rest? or shall I send for my servants to carry thee? ’ 

I sat up, then with some difficulty struggled to my 
feet, not feeling any pain but with a strange dizziness 
in my head. Perhaps this was the natural effect of 
waking in a quite different world. 

My new friend drew my arm into his, and we walked 
down the trimly-kept path under the apple trees; the 
box bordering seemed natural enough, but beyond it 
there grew some curious yellow and puce-coloured 
plants, that I had never seen before; it seemed to me 
wonderful that such fair flowers should bloom so early 
in the year; till I remembered that I was in a place 


92 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


where time had ceased to exist. This thought, and also 
perhaps the moving, made my brain feel in a whirl; my 
eyes grew dim so that I could only leave it to my com- 
panion to guide me. 

He led me into a house and made me lie down on a 
couch, where being still giddy and shaken I was glad 
enough to stay quietly. It was not apparently the cus- 
tom in this place to ply one with questions, and there 
was a strange restfulness in the man’s friendly silence. 

‘ Take this cordial/ he said to me after a timeless 
interval, during which I had lain with closed eyes, bask- 
ing as it were in the quiet. 

I took the silver cup he placed in my hand and 
thanked him. 

‘ The horse is not injured/ he remarked, ‘ my servant 
has put it in the stable, so be at rest on that point.’ 

The cordial had revived me, and now these startling 
words thoroughly roused me, for somehow I had never 
fancied that dear old Hotspur would go to heaven. 

c What has happened, sir? — I thought I was out of 
the world — yet you speak of the horse ? ’ I stammered, 
looking in perplexity at my friend. ‘ What is this place? 
and how did I come here, sir? ’ 

c The place is Hye Hill, and I am Nathaniel Radcliffe, 
one of the Society of Friends. Walking in my garden 
this afternoon I heard in the road sounds as of a run- 
away horse and the shouting of many voices; then over 
my hedge leapt a chestnut steed, and its rider was flung 
with violence on to my lawn.’ 

‘ I hope Hotspur did no mischief to your garden, sir? ’ 
I said. C I put him at the hedge to save the children in the 
lane who were too much scared to get out of the way.’ 

‘ He did no harm, for the gardener quickly caught 
him, but I fear, my friend, thou thyself art more injured 
than at first we thought. I see thou art suffering great 
pain.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


93 


I could not reply, for it took all my manhood to 
strangle the sobs that rose in my throat. As long as I 
live I shall never forget the horrible revulsion of feeling 
that overwhelmed me as I realised that I was back in 
this dreary world in which all things seemed going so 
hopelessly wrong. 

The Quaker put his hand on mine, probably to feel 
the pulse and judge of my state. His cool quiet touch 
had something soothing in it, and I gripped his hand 
hard in a way which must, I think, have astonished him. 

6 Have patience/ he said. c The sharpest pain cannot 
last long; God allows long aches but only short agonies/ 

I wondered if his words applied to mental pain as 
well as bodily, he looked like a man who had lived 
through both, and this gave his sayings a curious force. 
Perhaps that is why the prophets of old, nay of all ages, 
have led such troubled lives. They could not tell forth 
the truth with any force till they had lived through 
much tribulation. It was suffering that fitted them for 
the goodly fellowship of the prophets. 

‘ I will send for a surgeon, maybe he could relieve 
thee/ said the Quaker. 

For answer I broke into a wild fit of laughter, which 
was discourteous, but for the life of me I could not help 
it. 

I struggled to my feet and paced the room like one 
possessed. 

‘Why, sir, what could a leech do for me ? 5 I cried. 
‘ It is no bodily pain I feel. It is the torture of being 
in this'liateful world when I thought I was well out of it. 
IPs the torture of knowing that a rival whom I hate 
and despise is to win and keep and drag down to his 
own level the best and the most beautiful woman in all 
Cumberland. She little knows what he really is or she 
would never dream of wedding him. But I’ll not live 
to see her ruin her happiness; somehow I can surely 


94 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


pick a quarrel with him. He is a better swordsman 
than I — but I shall at least have the pleasure of fighting 
him/ 

c Wouldst thou break one of Christ’s commandments, 
to gratify thy carnal lust? ’ said the Quaker gravely. 

f Christ would never approve of this marriage ! 9 I said 
vehemently. 

‘ Maybe that is true/ replied Nathaniel Radcliffe; 
‘ indeed if thou dost refer to the marriage of which I 
heard some rumour to-day betwixt my young kins- 
woman Audrey Radcliffe and the Under-Sheriff I incline 
to agree with thee. Little true happiness is like to 
come of such a union/ 

c You are her kinsman, sir, I had forgot that. I 
remember now to have heard that you were at length 
released from gaol by King James. I saw you years 
ago at Cockermouth when all the people were hooting 
the Quakers/ 

‘ Why, then thou art most like the lad that didst lay 
hold of Barton’s stick to save my pate,’ said the Quaker 
with a smile. 1 Long ago as it is I recall thy face and 
am glad to see thee again. I trust that the days of 
persecution are at an end. They were hard to endure, as 
hard perchance as this pain that now tries thee so griev- 
ously, but we have grown strong through them, and so 
mayst thou, my friend, an thou wilt follow the guidance 
of the Spirit, and hold down thy brute instincts/ 

c If you knew the Under- Sheriff’s overbearing arro- 
gance, sir, you would long to fight him yourself,’ I said 
hotly. ‘ It might put off the marriage, moreover, for he 
is so good a swordsman that he would most likely make 
worm’s meat of me, and Audrey would scarce wed the 
murderer of her foster-brother.’ 

He laid his hand on my shoulder and drew me back 
once more to the couch. 

‘ Rest, my friend, and quietly think what thy words 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


95 


truly mean. Do nothing rashly, but wait for the lead- 
ing of the Spirit/ 

I think if he had preached at me I should have 
scoffed, or if he had argued with me I should have 
rushed from the house, but when he drew me back into 
that attitude of repose, and sat down himself at a little 
distance in an old high-backed chair, there was some- 
thing in the extreme gentleness of his manner that I 
could not resist. There was absolute silence in the 
room save for the ticking of the tall eight-day clock, and 
the gentle flickering of the flames on the hearth. I 
wondered vaguely if my companion would speak. 
Should we stay there for hours in this extraordinary 
silence? What was the good of it all? How cruelly it 
contrasted with the tumult of my mind, with the angry 
heat of the blood that pricked and throbbed in my veins. 
My eyes rested on the fine face of Nathaniel Radcliffe 
and for a time I forgot my own misery in wondering 
how a man though pale and emaciated by the unhealthy 
life he had led in prison could yet bear such an extraor- 
dinary look of serenity and peace. I shall never forget 
the expression of calm, patient waiting that was on his 
face. Most clearly he expected an inner voice to speak 
to him. And after all what could be more natural? 
Does God command us to pray and then intend that 
we shall spare not a minute to listen to what he will 
say to us? Of the duties of prayer and praise I had 
been taught ever since I was a child, but no one had 
said a word about waiting for the guidance of the Inner 
Light. 

Well, we naturally tend to follow the example of those 
we are with, and the influence of that calm, serene old 
man had much weight with me. I, too, began to wait 
expectantly. By degrees the angry heat died out of me, 
and I reflected with a gleam of satisfaction that Nathan- 
iel Radcliffe had agreed with me that Christ could 


9 6 


HOPE THE HERMlf 

hardly approve of this proposed marriage. Would He 
not then bring it to naught? That might or might 
not be, for evils were unquestionably for a time per- 
mitted; ‘ short agonies/ as the Quaker had called them, 
certainly found place in this sad world which I would 
so gladly have quitted. I fell to waiting again, but for 
a long, long time nothing came to me, only I was con- 
scious of the slow ticking of the clock in the corner. 
I could almost have smiled, for to my fancy the pendu- 
lum seemed to beat time to the words, ‘ Choose well/ 
‘ Choose well/ 

The words seemed a mockery. What choice was left 
me ? This hideous bit of suffering had been thrust into 
my life and somehow I had to endure it. 

Then back into my mind flashed the line from Shak- 
spere which had come to me that morning at Isel: 6 Love 
give me strength, and strength shall help afford I 
began to see that there was a weak way and a strong 
way of bearing this heavy blow, — that it might cripple 
and mar my life or, if I would, might make me strong 
with a strength which does not come to those who live 
lapped in ease. What if I could come out of this fiery 
furnace as Nathaniel Radcliffe had come out of his long 
imprisonment? 

The thing that happened then I cannot explain, but 
suddenly all the pain and tumult in my heart was 
hushed. An inner stillness, like the outer stillness of 
the room, fell upon me, and out of this heavenly calm 
a voice spoke in my heart, — spoke the words that ended 
my desolation, and gave me the leading I craved, that 
comforted even the old soreness as to my birth. 

It seemed to me a miracle when, a few minutes later, 
Nathaniel Radcliffe quietly rose to his feet and repeated 
the very words that had been spoken to me. 

His manner was slow and gentle; he seemed like a 
child repeating a message as he began, — 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


97 


* “ I have called thee ly thy name. Thou art mine ” 
It is laid upon me to speak these words to thee, friend, 
and to bid thee he loyal to Him whose love is the unfail- 
ing fount of strength/ 

Then he sat down again in the high-hacked chair 
and stillness fell upon us once more. But the wish 
for vengeance and the craving for death had died out 
of me, and I stood on the threshold of a new life. 


CHAPTER XI 


On the Saturday morning, as Sir Nicholas Radcliffe 
rose from the table at the end of breakfast, his chaplain 
put a question to him. Throughout the meal there had 
been silence, for the old knight was in the lowest of 
spirits, and the priest’s busy brain had been at work 
on an interesting problem. 

‘ Sir/ he said, ‘ is your brother Mr. J ohn Radcliffe 
still in France?’ 

‘He spoke in his last letter of coming to England 
in the spring,’ said Sir Nicholas, ‘ and by this time he 
may be in London for aught I know.’ 

‘ Might it not be well that he should know this news 
as to Mistress Audrey’s betrothal?’ said the priest. 
‘ ’Tis a matter that cannot be without interest to him.’ 

‘ True,’ said Sir Nicholas, ‘ since he will succeed at 
my death, he has doubtless a right to know the un- 
welcome news. I would that he or any man had the 
power to forbid the match.’ 

The priest’s shrewd, kindly face was over-clouded 
now; the thought of Audrey’s marriage to Henry 
Brownrigg was abhorrent to him for many reasons. He 
was really fond of his pupil and was grieved to think of 
the life she was likely to lead with a man so overbearing 
and selfish as the Under-Sheriff. Then, too, he sin- 
cerely desired her marriage with the son of Sir Francis 
Salkeld, a Catholic gentleman of good position and 
excellent character. And deep down in his heart there 
was one thought keenly painful to a really good man, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


99 


and that was that — his lips being silenced by the knowl- 
edge that he had gained in the confessional — he was 
obliged to keep quiet, and see one for whom he had 
real affection placed in a most unfair position, and ren- 
dered now utterly useless in the game. He was heartily 
sorry for Michael, who by some perverse fate seemed 
always to be the one to get the worst of things, and 
through no fault of his own to pay the penalty of other 
people’s sins and mistakes. 

The question as to Mr. John Radcliffe’s return to 
England had been prompted by a strong desire both 
to check the Brownrigg marriage and to help Michael to 
his rights, but no one knew better than the priest how 
difficult the course he proposed to steer would probably 
prove. For many years, the whole truth as to Michael’s 
parentage had been known to him, and again and again 
he had been forced to act a living lie. Long ago John 
Radcliffe had in confession revealed to him all the de- 
tails of his first marriage, the death of his wife at 
Watendlath and his own abandonment of the child in 
Borrowdale. At that time Mr. Noel had been living 
in London and it was not till the so-called Popish plot 
had driven numbers of Catholics into hiding that he left 
his work in the south of England and found shelter with 
old Sir Nicholas Radcliffe on Derwentwater. Here, in 
Audrey’s little foster-brother, the Borrowdale foundling, 
he speedily recognised John Radcliffe’s deserted child, 
and though his lips were necessarily sealed he wrote 
most urgently to Michael’s father, strongly counselling 
him to acknowledge his son. 

His letters however proved of no avail. John Rad- 
cliffe had escaped to France and saw no reason to burden 
himself with any additional trouble or expense; more- 
over he shrank from the reproaches of his second wife 
and her kinsfolk, and determined to let things be. The 
priest now began to think that it would be well to 


IOO 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


undertake a journey to London to seek out the heir to 
the estate and to rouse him to a sense of his duty in this 
matter. He hoped that when all was made public and 
Henry Brownrigg realised that Audrey would not suc- 
ceed to the Goldrill estate on the death of her great- 
uncle he would readily consent to abandon the pro- 
posed alliance with the Radcliffes, and in that case 
either Michael’s union with Audrey might solve the 
difficulty and end matters happily, or Audrey could he 
married to the heir of Sir Francis Salkeld, as proved 
best and most desirable for the general good. 

He was pacing up and down in the garden, still 
musing over these schemes, when he was startled to see 
the figure of Michael himself at the further end of the 
path. The priest had time as he approached to take in 
every detail of his appearance. He looked years older 
than when they had last met, hut notwithstanding his 
pallor and the unmistakeable signs of a great struggle 
passed through, there was something vigorous and 
strong in his hearing which delighted the priest. He 
had had to deal with many love-sick youths in his time, 
but had never come across one who met his troubles 
precisely in this fashion. 

‘ You are early at Derwentwater! ’ he exclaimed with 
a cheery greeting. ‘ Hast had my letter? ’ 

‘ Yes, sir, it reached Isel yesterday/ said Michael, and 
his voice betrayed more than his face, for it had a curi- 
ous note in it that is only heard in the voice of one who 
suffers. ‘ I should have seen you last night, for I rode 
into Crosthwaite with a letter from Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 
but I was thrown from my horse and stunned, so got no 
further than Keswick.’ 

‘None the worse, I hope,’ said the priest, ‘though now 
I look at you ’tis clear you have had a shaking. I hear, 
by the bye, from Sir Nicholas that you had good news 
while you were at Raby Castle.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


IOI 


* Good news ? 5 said Michael, looking bewildered, for 
it seemed to him a mockery to speak of anything being 
good just then. 

‘Ay, to be sure/ said the priest cheerfully; ‘Mrs. 
Radclifie said in her letter that Sir Christopher Vane 
knew of your parentage, and that all doubt as to your 
having been born in wedlock was at an end/ 

‘ Yes/ said Michael, ‘ that is clear, but I don’t know 
that the knowledge will avail much/ 

‘ Nonsense/ said the priest. ‘ It may avail you more 
than you think and you should leave no stone unturned 
to get at further evidence and to learn the whole truth. 
What did you hear from Sir Christopher? 9 

Michael repeated what had passed between them. 

‘ I have a notion/ he said, ‘ that from the description 
he gave it must have been up at Watendlath that I was 
born. He spoke of coming down into Borrowdale at 
night, and that he had much difficulty in making his 
way to the left to a farm where they had stabled the 
horses. That fits in with what we already know as to 
the two gentlemen who left their horses at Longth waite; 
and in the meantime my father must have walked along 
towards the Bowder stone till he came to the place 
where I was found by Sir Wilfrid and Dickon/ 

‘ If I were you/ said the priest, ‘ I would go to Wa- 
tendlath and see what you can discover from the good 
folk up there. What do you say to making a day of 
it among the hills? Nothing could clear your brain 
better after your tumble of yesterday. Come, go out 
with me. We will walk first to Seath waite where I have 
to visit a sick man, and afterwards we will work our 
way up to Watendlath and learn what we can as to the 
past/ 

Michael fell in very readily with this plan, and was 
grateful to his old tutor for the discreet silence he pre- 
served as to Audrey. He tried hard to rouse himself 


102 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


into taking interest in the research which had once 
meant so much to him, but all his future had become 
blank and empty; he could only hold fast to the thought 
that had come to him at Hye Hill the day before, that 
his life belonged to One who was actually within him, 
and that through weal and through woe he had to follow 
the guidance of that Inner Light. 

The walk would have been a silent one had it de- 
pended on Michael to find topics for conversation, but 
the priest with rare skill and kindliness kept up a cheery 
flow of such chat as he thought best suited to draw his 
pupil away from dwelling over much on his troubles. 
He talked of his own youth, of his training at St. Omer, 
of his life in London, of adventures that had befallen 
him as he crossed the Alps years ago in a pilgrimage 
to Rome. So that it was not until they had reached 
Seathwaite, and Michael was left for an hour to his own 
devices, that he had much leisure for remembrance. 
The cloud quickly fell upon him then, however, and as 
he wandered on to the foot of the Styhead Pass every- 
thing in the landscape seemed to harmonise only too 
well with the utter dreariness that oppressed him. The 
grey amphitheatre of rugged hills, the foaming white 
stream which he had crossed lower down in the valley, 
the stunted, leafless mountain-ash tree which seemed 
the only living thing within sight, made a picture that 
for desolation could hardly have been surpassed. He 
threw himself on the rocks by a tiny waterfall that 
went splashing down beside the mountain-ash; the dull 
aching at his heart seemed to creep all over his physical 
frame as he rested his throbbing head on the grey 
boulder nearest him. He wondered whether Jacob had 
felt half as desolate and weary on that night long ago 
when the stones had been his pillow. 

Presently he fell asleep, and like Jacob dreamed a 
dream. Some one bent over him and kissed him on the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


103 


forehead, and looking np quickly he saw the face that 
he had learnt to know so well from the miniature — his 
mother’s face. Its tender yet strong sympathy seemed 
to fill him with new energy. 

‘ Your work awaits you! ’ she said, and he started up 
from sleep and looked round in a bewildered way. 

The vision had faded, only in the bare mountain-ash 
tree there was a robin singing its cheerful morning 
song, and revelling in a brief gleam of sunshine which 
swept over the gloomy grey of the hills. 

He had no notion how long he had been asleep, and 
fearing to keep Mr. Noel beyond the appointed time he 
went back to Seathwaite, his mind still haunted by the 
loveliness of the face he had just seen. 

The priest did not keep him waiting but came 
promptly out of the little stone cottage where the sick 
man lived, directly his step was heard without. 

‘ I shall have to leave you to go to Watendlath alone/ 
he said. ‘ For Jo Milburn is in a critical state and his 
wife worn out with watching. I cannot leave them 
yet.’ 

And so it chanced that Michael made his way alone 
up from Rosth waite to Watendlath and, early in the 
afternoon, climbed the steps leading to the door of 
Wilson’s farm and knocked for admittance. There was 
little journeying about in these days, and as often as 
not people in the next hamlet did not know each other. 
Although Watendlath was such a short distance from 
the place where Michael had spent the greater part of 
his life he had never before seen the face of the elderly 
woman in clean white mutch and snowy kerchief who 
opened the door to him and inquired what he needed. 

His tale was soon told, and Mary Wilson, who had 
listened in silence to all that he had heard at Raby, 
gave an exclamation of heartfelt interest and recogni- 
tion as he showed her the miniature. 


104 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


All her caution and northern reserve were scattered 
by the sight. 

< Aw to be sure! ’T is the honnie leddy hersel’. An’ 
yon are as like her, sir, as like can he, and reet glad am I 
to think that no mischance befell ye the night the gen- 
tleman carried ye off in such haste/ 

‘ Did you ever learn his name?’ asked Michael, 
eagerly. 

‘No, sir, though I asked the leddy mair then once, 
but she just shook her head. And after she had deed 
and you were carried off I called after the gentleman 
to ask him, but the wind was blawin’, and awa in the 
distance cam’ the sound of the “ bar-foot stag ” and the 
hounds, and I was forced to shut the door.’ 

c It was at night then? ’ asked Michael. 

‘ Oh, ay, sir! and I niver fairly saw the gentleman’s 
face, he was in sair haste, and after going in to see the 
corp’ he just hade me wrap a cloak aboot ye, and laid 
some gold on the table for the buryin’ and was gone be- 
fore I reetly knew what he was aboot. ... Ill 
fitted was he to tak’ care of a babe, or a wife either for 
that matter. And the bonny leddy vowed with her last 
breath that she was his true weddit wife, though ’t was 
plain to see that he’d broke his vows and had done nowt 
to comfort and cherish her. But there! Mony a man 
will swear those words glib enoo’ in kirk, and niver give 
the matter a thought agin. They wouldna treat a horse 
with as little care as their ain weddit wife often enoo’. 
There’s ain thing ye should have, sir,’ she added, going 
to an oaken chest and searching diligently among its 
contents. c When we cam’ to make the leddy ready for 
her buryin’ we found this.’ 

She handed to him a copy of the ‘Imitation of Christ * 
and, eagerly opening it, Michael read the inscription on 
the flyleaf. 

‘ Lucy Carleton. Her Booke. Penrith. 1666/ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


105 


‘Why, here is the name clearly enough!’ he exclaimed, 
reading the words aloud. 

‘ Mappen that would be her maiden name/ said the 
shrewd north country woman. ‘ ’T was in the summer 
of the year 1668 as I mind weel that she died in this 
hoose, an’ she told me her ain sel’ she had but been 
ten months weddit. God forgive me! I doubted her 
at first and thought ’t was just the auld story over agin 
of a young girl an’ a braw faced man that had deceived 
her; but I never doubted after she deed. There was 
truth — God’s truth in her look as she said her last 
words, an’ the strength of her I shall niver forget, for 
it frightened me in one just passin’ awa. She made a 
beautiful corp’, sir. You wad like mebbe to see the 
room yonder; ’t was in there she deed.’ 

Michael felt a choking sensation in his throat as he 
glanced round the room. 

‘ And her husband? what of him? ’ he asked. ‘ What 
sort of man was he?’ 

‘Aboot your ain height, sir, he was, an’ as I think 
with light hair, but he kept his face well-nigh hidden. 
As for me I thought him stern and hard, but belike ’t 
was the shock of seein’ his wife dead. An’ angry I was 
with him for takin’ the laal barn — that’s you, sir — 
oot into the cauld. Howiver there was no gainsayin’ 
him; he was off wid the babe under his cloak before I 
could rightly understand that he meant it in sober 
earnest, and nowt more have I heard or seen of him 
since.’ 

c Where was my mother buried?’ asked Michael. 

‘ Over at Wythburn, sir. ’T was the way they had 
travelled from, and my husband he made inquiries 
but could learn nowt. They had been just travellers 
passin’ through the country, foreign to these parts, I 
take it.’ 

This was all that Michael could gather, and having 


io6 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


thanked Mary Wilson, and accepted the meal she hos- 
pitably offered him, he tramped down to Derwentwater 
once more, and, borrowing a boat from Mounsey, the 
miller of Lowdore, rowed himself out to Sir Wilfrid’s 
summer house on St. Herbert’s Isle. 


CHAPTER XII 


Audrey Radcliffe had in the meantime been pass- 
ing a very qniet interval at Penrith with her mother’s 
kinsfolk. The first excitement of her betrothal was 
over and she had settled down into a state of dreamy 
content, liking well enough to work at the store of new 
garments wdiich her mother was helping her to prepare, 
and wandering in her own heart whether in their old 
age she and Henry Brownrigg would he as quarrelsome 
a couple as her great-aunt and great-uncle Aglionby. 

Surely Henry could never so flatly contradict her, or 
adopt Uncle Aglionby’s invariable retort — 

‘ Nonsense, madam, you know nothing whatever about 
it; ply your needle and hold your tongue.’ 

If he did, could she have had the patience to go on 
meekly making his shirt, while he blundered over some 
detail which a woman with her quicker insight would 
have had the skill to avoid? Certainly Aunt Aglionby 
revenged herself by most withering remarks when her 
husband was ruefully obliged to admit himself mistaken. 
There was something indescribably irritating about her 
smile and her — e Just as I told you, sir.’ 

Still the old people were fond of each other after a 
fashion, and apart they would have been utterly miser- 
able; but Audrey, who had seen scarcely anything of 
married life, began to perceive that it was not all un- 
mixed bliss, and that even these old kinsfolk who had 
lived together for fifty years had still to make large 
allowance for each other’s little infirmities. She was 


108 HOPE THE HERMIT 

sitting one morning in the parlour busy with a piece of 
fine embroidery when her mother entered with an open 
letter in her hand. 

‘I have heard from an old friend of my mother’s, 
Audrey/ she said, ‘ a Mrs. Simpson who is visiting her 
kinsman, Mr. Carleton, not far from Penrith. She has 
but just heard of our being in the neighbourhood, and 
Mr. Carleton’s coach waits below to take us back to 
visit them. Put on your best sacque, child, and let us 
come at once, for the horses must not be kept waiting 
in this cold east wind/ 

‘ Who is Mr. Carleton, ma’am? ’ asked Audrey, glanc- 
ing towards the hearth where Aunt Aglionby was busy 
with her spinning wheel. 

‘ He lives at Carleton Manor, a mile from Penrith/ 
said the old lady. ‘But he is a strange-tempered 
old gentleman and crippled with gout; the Simp- 
sons are the only visitors who ever stay at the manor 
now.’ 

‘Did not his daughter and heiress marry Thomas 
Simpson?’ asked Mrs. Radcliffe. 

‘ To he sure she did; they had her safely wedded 
when she was hut a child of fourteen lest she should 
follow the example of her elder sister/ said Mrs. Ag- 
lionby. ‘ The poor old man has never got over that 
scandal.’ 

Audrey would have liked to stay and hear more, for 
Aunt Aglionby seemed in a chatty mood, hut she was 
obliged to hasten away and dress, and though she had 
intended to ask her mother what the scandal was that 
had so disturbed old Mr. Carleton she forgot all about it 
when they were rattling along in the cumbrous old 
coach, nor did it recur to her mind until Mrs. Simpson, 
a pleasant-looking elderly lady, led her into the room 
where, half lost in a huge grandfather chair with cush- 
ioned sides and arms to it, sat a withered, wrinkled old 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


109 


man in a purple coat, with his gouty foot on a leg-rest, 
and that ominous single upright line between the eyes 
which betokens a stormy temper. 

He received Mrs. Radcliffe with an effort at courtesy, 
but either a twinge of gout or some painful memory 
made him glare at Audrey as she curtseyed in response 
to his slight bow. 

‘What! madam! ' he said, turning to Mrs. Radcliffe, 
‘ do I understand that your daughter has arrived at 
this age and is not yet married? That's a mistake — a 
great mistake.' 

‘ Audrey is betrothed to Mr. Brownrigg the TJnder- 
Sheriff,' said Mrs. Radcliffe, amazed, but secretly 
amused, at this very plain speaking. 

‘ Get her married quick, madam,' growled the old 
man. ‘ Delays are dangerous. I would have all maids 
wedded at fourteen, before they have time to get foolish 
notions in their heads or try to take the bit between 
their teeth.' 

Here Mrs. Simpson contrived to put in a word which 
turned the conversation, and soon after the butler an- 
nounced that dinner was served. The meal proved a 
long and very dull function and Audrey sighed with 
relief when they returned to the cooler atmosphere of 
the withdrawing room. Here a pretty little boy of 
seven years old joined them, Mrs. Simpson's small 
grandson, Tom; and Audrey, who could always make 
herself happy with children, soon induced the little 
fellow to cast aside his stiff company manner and to 
chatter away freely. 

‘ Show your doves to Miss Radcliffe, Tom,' said his 
grandmother, not unwilling to get rid of the two 
younger members of the family and to enjoy a quiet 
talk with Mrs. Radcliffe. 

And Audrey, willingly enough, went off hand in hand 
with the child, who led her into a far away wing where 


no 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


in the big deserted nursery his wicker cage of doves 
occupied the wide window-seat. 

‘ Did you bring this big cage with you from home ? ’ 
asked Audrey. 

c No, the doves live here/ said the child. ‘ But every 
year I come here and see them, sometimes with my 
mother, sometimes with grandmother. I should like it 
if it weren’t for the ghost.’ 

Audrey laughed merrily. 

‘ Why, Tom, there are no such things as ghosts,’ she 
said. ‘ Come! I am sure you never saw one.’ 

f No,’ said the child doubtfully, e I don’t think it 
comes into the house, but Betty — that’s the housemaid 
— she says that any night you may see her walking in 
the pleasance and crying! ’ 

‘ See Betty? ’ said Audrey mischievously. 

‘ No, see the ghost,’ said the child with wide eyes. 

‘ Who is she? ’ 

< Well,’ said Tom, lowering his voice, * don’t say I 
told you, for they think I don’t know, they always do 
think I don’t know things — but it is my mother’s sister, 
Lucy — I b’lieve she was a very wicked woman — that’s 
why we must never say her name, Betty says — though 
all the same I think Betty is very sorry for her. She 
disobeyed grandfather, and no one ever dares do that — 
I can’t think how she dared do it. Betty said that 
rather than marry Sir James Grey, who was always 
drunk by two in the afternoon, she ran away from home. 
Betty’s mother was a servant here then and she told her. 
You come here and I’ll show you something.’ 

Audrey allowed herself to be led along a corridor at 
the end of which Tom unbolted a door and took her 
into an empty room. Not an atom of furniture was in 
it, but leaning against the wainscot with its face to the 
wall there stood a large picture. 

' This was Aunt Lucy’s bedroom,’ whispered the child, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


hi 


* and after she ran away my grandfather had it all 
stripped like this, and he made them take down her pic- 
ture from the dining room and had it put away in 
here with its face to the wall/ 

‘ And what makes you fancy that she walks still in the 
garden ? 5 said Audrey. 

‘ They have seen her/ said the child in an awe-struck 
voice. ‘ Her ghost walks up and down under the trees 
in the pleasance, just as Betty’s mother saw her doing 
the afternoon when my grandfather said she should 
marry Sir James whether she liked it or not. She 
walked to and fro crying, for hours, they say, and in the 
morning when they came here to wake her up, the room 
was empty and the window wide open; she had got out 
in the night by this tree that grows close by/ 

Audrey went to look at the tree and reflected that the 
girl must have been desperate indeed before she took 
such a leap. Then she stooped down and looked at the 
name painted on the hack of the picture. 

Lucy Carleton. Anno Domini 1666, setat 15. 

Strong curiosity to see the face of the heroine of this 
strange romance suddenly seized her. She carefully 
turned the picture round, rather to the horror of little 
Tom, who gripped fast hold of her dress, curious, too, 
yet full of an inexplicable dread at the thought of seeing 
the face of the ghost. 

Flicking off the dust with her handkerchief, Audrey 
saw that the picture represented a young girl sitting in 
a conventional attitude on a grassy slope, in a white 
satin dress much more suited to a ball-room. At her 
feet two little King Charles spaniels played with a ball, 
but when, raising her hand to dust the higher part of the 
picture, Audrey was able to make out the features dis- 
tinctly, she gave a stifled exclamation of astonishment. 
For in that familiar short face with its healthy colour- 
ing, its finely moulded mouth and chin, its dazzlingly 


1 12 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


bright hazel eyes and soft brown curls, she at once 
recognised the face painted in the miniature which she 
and Michael had discovered in Borrowdale. Here at last 
was fresh evidence as to Michael's parentage, and she 
hastily turned over in her mind the plan she had best 
adopt. It would hardly do to speak of the discovery 
downstairs, she must at any rate consult with her mother 
first, and with another long look at the picture she 
turned it once more with its face to the wall, and hand 
in hand with Tom returned to the nursery. 

‘ You could not be afraid of such a sweet-looking 
ghost as that/ she said, glancing at the child. 

‘ 1ST — no/ said Tom doubtfully. ‘ I'm somehow glad 
she was fond of dogs.' 

That was a human touch and gave him a fellow feel- 
ing for the poor ghost. ‘ I wish she had the dogs with 
her when she walks/ he said. ‘ But she doesn't. They 
say she is always crying, and crying, as if her heart 
would break.' 

Audrey was silent; the mournful cooing of the doves 
in the cage seemed to harmonise only too well with the 
sad story of poor Lucy. Could it really be true that she 
was unable to rest but still returned to her old home, 
haunting the place where she had suffered so much? 

‘ I wonder why she walks? ' said Tom. ‘ Is it because 
my grandfather never forgave her? ' 

‘I don't know/ said Audrey musingly. ‘ Perhaps 
there is some wrong that she wants set right.' 

‘ There's Eover barking in the pleasance; come and 
look at him/ said the child, running to the window. 
‘ Why see! he is barking at that pretty lady; he always 
does bark at strangers. Who can she be? Look, she is 
stopping to make friends with him; he's quiet now, he’s 
wagging his tail.' 

‘But Tom/ said Audrey in astonishment, ‘there is 
no lady there, only the dog.' 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ii3 


‘ Yes, there is! Why, I can see her as plain, as plain! 
She’s coming this way, she’s looking np at ns. Oh! it is 
the lady in the picture — how lovely — how lovely she is. 
It’s you she’s looking at! What is it she wants so 
much? ’ 

‘ Dear Tom, it’s your fancy, there’s nothing to be seen 
at all, only the dog wagging his tail.’ 

( It’s the ghost lady. And she’s begging you to do 
something for her,’ said Tom, struggling to unfasten 
the window. ‘ What is it that you want, ma’am?’ he 
called in his shrill treble. ‘ Oh, she gave such a smile 
at that, and now she’s looking at you; she must be very 
fond of you. Oh, see! she’s going, she’s waving her 
hand. She’s gone out, just as my soap-bubbles go.’ 

Audrey looked in some perplexity at her companion’s 
intent little face. She was afraid that his brooding 
over the ghost story, and the sight of the picture, had 
over-excited his brain. 

‘ You have been having a spring afternoon’s dream, 
Tom,’ she said laughingly. ‘ Come, let us have a good 
game of battledore and shuttlecock. I’ll warrant I can 
beat you at that.’ 

Delighted to have a playfellow, Tom willingly as- 
sented to this plan, and they were still hard at work, 
and making the nursery ring with their merry voices 
and the monotonous heat of the battledores, when the 
old serving-man came to say that the coach was at the 
door, and would Mistress Radclilfe come to the with- 
drawing room. 

‘ I shall never he afraid of the ghost any more,’ whis- 
pered Tom in her ear, ‘ now that I’ve seen her .’ 

The farewells were said and Audrey and her mother 
were shut into the cumbrous old coach. 

‘ Such a strange thing has happened, mother,’ said 
the girl eagerly. ‘ Through the chatter of little Tom 
Simpson I have learnt something more about Michael 
8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


1 14 

Derwent’s mother; there can be no doubt that she was 
old Mr. Carleton’s runaway daughter, for her picture is 
precisely like the miniature we found. Do they know 
who she married?’ 

c They have no idea. Mrs. Simpson was talking of it 
just now. I believe old Mr. Carleton knows, but no one 
else has ever discovered who the man was.’ 

‘ We must let Michael know about this,’ said Audrey. 
e I will write to him and tell him just what I found out.’ 

‘ No need to write,’ said Mrs. Radcliffe. ‘We shall 
soon be at home again and shall doubtless see him.’ 

‘ Yes, we shall soon be home,’ said Audrey, and then 
with a sudden catching of the breath she gripped fast 
hold of her mother’s hand. For as they passed out 
through the gate something made the horses shy vio- 
lently and for a minute it seemed that the coach must be 
overturned. Then plunging and kicking in desperate 
terror the frightened animals suddenly bolted and went 
tearing madly along the road to Penrith. 

c Don’t be frightened, dear,’ said Mrs. Radcliffe, sur- 
prised to see the deathly pallor of Audrey’s face, for as 
a rule the girl was not easily alarmed. 

* Oh mother! ’ she said, trembling violently, ‘ it was 
the ghost that made them shy, I saw her by the gatepost, 
and she was weeping bitterly.’ 

c You are overwrought,’ said her mother soothingly. 
tf It must have been your fancy and the memory of the 
picture.’ 

So she argued, but the fact remained that the terrified 
horses were still galloping at a pace which seemed 
incredible considering the load they were dragging; that 
the coachman sat on the box trembling like a man 
with the palsy, quite unable to control them, and that 
the Carleton coach was rolling and swinging from side 
to side, bumping over stones, crashing through ruts 
and shaking the occupants intolerably. At length there 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ii5 

came one tremendous upheaving, and the coach was 
overturned just as they reached the outskirts of Penrith. 

How long they lay there stunned Audrey had no 
notion; she awoke to the consciousness that someone was 
lifting her up and that the fresh cold wind was blowing 
on her face. In a bewildered way she looked round; 
two passers by were lifting Mrs. Radcliffe, and as they 
laid her on the grass by the roadside she heard her 
mother moan faintly. The sound made her start to 
her feet and hasten to Mrs. Radcliffe’s side. It was evi- 
dent that she was seriously hurt, nor did she entirely 
recover consciousness until they had carried her back 
to Uncle Aglionby’s house, where, under the care of 
Aunt Aglionby’s maid, who seemed to have every ap- 
pliance that was needed for fainting ladies, from harts- 
horn to burnt feathers, she gradually came to herself. 

Audrey breathed more freely on hearing the surgeon’s 
report that no bones were broken, but before long it 
became evident that some serious internal mischief had 
been caused by the accident, and their unlucky drive 
from Carleton Manor proved the beginning of a long 
and wearing illness which made any thought of return- 
ing to Lord’s Island out of the question for some 
months. 


CHAPTER XIII 


At Isel Hall the summer passed by uneventfully. 
Michael had had plenty to do, and fortunately it had 
not been possible for him to brood over his private 
troubles, for no one could live with Sir Wilfrid and fail 
to take a keen and practical interest in the affairs of the 
political world. Though sorry to hear of Mrs. Radcliffe’s 
tedious illness, Audrey’s enforced stay at Penrith was 
clear gain to him, and he was not without hope that Sir 
Wilfrid — who had recently been made a baronet — might 
be compelled before long to make a journey to London 
in connection with a lawsuit, and that by accompany- 
ing him he might still further postpone that dreaded 
meeting with the girl he loved, in her new position as 
Henry Brownrigg’s betrothed. 

One September afternoon, dinner being over, he was 
pacing to and fro in the quaint walled garden which lay 
in front of the house, when he saw, coming towards him 
down the broad flight of stone steps which were always 
half veiled by moss and ferns, the well-known figure of 
Zinogle, the Keswick fiddler. 

‘ Why, Zinogle! ’ he exclaimed, greeting the old man 
heartily. ‘ ’Tis an age since I saw you. How goes the 
world at Keswick? ’ 

‘ Hot so well as it did last Hovember, sir, when we 
fired the beacon/ said Zinogle with a sly gleam in his 
eye. * There’s less of thanking the Almighty and more 
of grumbling and squabbling. For my part I say long 
live King William, who had the chimney tax repealed.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


117 

‘What! you bring a letter for me?’ said Michael, 
glancing curiously at the missive which Zinogle pro- 
duced from his leather wallet. 

‘ A letter from Mr. Noel, sir, and I’ve just delivered 
one from Mrs. Radcliffe to Sir Wilfrid Lawson/ 

‘ Is Mrs. Radcliffe at Lord’s Island then ? ’ asked 
Michael, his heart stirring uncomfortably. 

‘ Yes, sir, they are at home, and Mrs. Radcliffe calls 
herself well, but to my thinking she’ll never again be 
what she was before her accident.’ 

Michael did not reply; he was busy with Mr. Noel’s 
letter, which brought him news that was sufficiently 
startling. 

‘My Dear Michael: 

A rumour has reached us that Sir Wilfrid Lawson is about 
to go to London. Deeming it probable that you will attend 
him, I am most anxious to see you first that I may give you an 
introduction to an old friend of mine who may, I believe, be of 
service to you. Mrs. Radcliffe is writing to Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 
at the request of Sir Nicholas, and trusts that he will break 
his journey here. There is yet a further reason why we are 
anxious to get speech of you. While at Penrith Mrs. Radcliffe 
and her daughter visited a Mr. Robert Carleton of Carleton 
Manor ; they have reason to believe that he must be your 
grandfather, but have not succeeded in getting actual proof. 
The name corresponds with that in the book which was given 
you at Watendlath and I think you should lose no time in 
following up the clue. 

I am, yours very faithfully, 

Augustine Noel.’ 

Michael read this letter with very mingled feelings. 
To escape from this quiet place would indeed be a relief; 
he had suffered too bitterly in that stately old hall with 
its imposing fagade and its massive pele tower not to 
crave for fresh fields and pastures new; the thought of 
at length finding his mother’s people stimulated his 


ii8 HOPE THE HERMIT 

fancy, and the notion of at length seeing London pleased 
him well enough; but all this would be dearly purchased 
by having to stay at Lord's Island under the same roof 
as Audrey, and with the constant dread that Henry 
Brownrigg might appear upon the scene. 

* Well, after all! ' he reflected somewhat bitterly, ‘ I 
am not my own master and shall have to do as Sir 
Wilfrid thinks best.' 

‘ Come indoors, Zinogle/ he said, turning to the 
fiddler ; ‘ you must want rest and food after your 
journey, and I will go and write a reply to Mr. Noel/ 

A journey to London in those days was a formidable 
undertaking, and in this instance Sir Wilfrid knew that 
he would probably meet with a thousand delays and hin- 
drances and that several months would probably elapse 
before he returned to the north country. Many things 
had to be discussed and arranged; the attorney was sum- 
moned from Cockermouth to make out a new will, ten- 
ants had to be seen and entertained, accounts over- 
hauled, and everything set in order as though instead 
of making a journey to the south of England, the good 
baronet was taking leave of this world altogether. 

However, at length all arrangements were made, and 
on a bright October morning Sir Wilfrid and his secre- 
tary set out for the long-talked-of expedition. It was 
about noon when they reached Keswick, and Michael, in 
spite of himself, felt a thrill of pleasure as he caught 
sight once more of Derwentwater glistening in the sun 
and beyond it that wonderful vista of the Borrowdale 
crags. He might be coming face to face with sorrow, 
but after all it was a home-coming, and he felt new life 
in him as he looked lovingly at those familiar moun- 
tains which had been the friends of his childhood. No 
other place in the world could ever be to him what 
Borrowdale had been. 

Putting up their horses at Stable Hills Farm, they 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


119 

were rowed across the narrow strip of water to the island 
by old William Hollins, and then, with steady steps hut 
a wildly throbbing heart, Michael walked beside his 
patron np the familiar path to the great door. It 
opened just as they approached, and he saw Audrey 
standing between the two old serving-men, waiting to 
receive her grandfather’s guests, and making a pretty 
apology to Sir Wilfrid. Sir Nicholas, she said, was not 
well, and they had persuaded him not to venture from 
the hearth. The next moment her hand was in 
Michael’s, and she was giving him the most matter-of- 
fact greeting, friendly but preoccupied, — apparently 
quite oblivious that anything out of the common had 
happened since they had last held each other’s hands at 
Raby Castle. 

Well, he reflected, she had never in the least under- 
stood what she had been to him, and it was better so. 
His heart seemed to turn into a lump of ice, hut then, 
after all, was not that more or less convenient? He 
found himself able to talk with perfect sang-froid, even 
to jest with Father Noel — as most people called him in 
these more tolerant days — over the outfit he would need 
directly he reached London. 

Mrs. Radcliffe was particularly kind to him, perhaps 
because her quick insight penetrated below his mask of 
composure and well-assumed indifference; or possibly 
because she could not help rejoicing in the thought that 
she was not to have this penniless and nameless found- 
ling for a son-in-law, — a mere boy, moreover, contrasting 
most unfavourably in every respect with the Under- 
Sheriff, who was a man of good standing, wealthy, and 
eminently fitted to protect Audrey from the wiles of 
Father Noel. 

It did not occur to her that the priest’s schemes were 
by no means ended by the betrothal, and that he had 
no intention whatever of quietly acquiescing in what 


120 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


seemed to him a most disastrous state of things. She 
retired when dinner was over, leaving the gentlemen 
over their wine, and being still weak after her long ill- 
ness, she was glad to go to her own room and rest while 
Audrey took a basketful of scraps of bread and went 
out to feed her swans. 

Father Noel caught sight of her just as Sir Nicholas 
rose from the table, and went off to the library with Sir 
Wilfrid Lawson. He glanced from the girl’s retreating 
figure to the face of his pupil and thought for a moment. 
Was he deliberately to lead this boy into'temptation ? 

‘ His heart is frozen/ he reflected. ‘ It must at any 
cost be thawed, or he will inevitably go to the dogs. 
Were there another woman likely to serve the purpose 
I would throw him in her way, but as things are it is 
absolutely necessary that we should keep him still in 
love with Audrey. He will suffer, but that can’t be 
helped. To save him from himself, and to save her 
from Henry Brownrigg, I must put up with that and 
run a certain amount of risk.’ 

‘Let us come out together in the orchard,’ he said, 
turning to Michael. 6 1 want to speak a few words with 
you as to my friend in London, to whom you have kindly 
promised to bear a book. He, also, was one of those 
falsely suspected in the time of the so-called Popish plot 
in 1678. We left London together, but he has spent 
most of his time abroad, having only lately returned to 
London. I know that you are not one of the bigots who 
will have no dealings with a Catholic, or I should not 
have asked this service of you.’ 

‘I will gladly serve any friend of yours, sir,’ said 
Michael. ‘ What is the gentleman’s name ? ’ 

e Ask for him under the name of Mr. Calverley. He 
is staying in Yilliers Street, York Buildings. I have 
known him for many years, and shall be grateful if you 
will deliver into his hands the letter and packet I will 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


1 21 


give you. And now let us say a word as to your own 
affairs/ 

‘ As to this Mr. Carleton of Penrith, sir? 9 

‘ Yes. It was strange that the discovery should have 
been made, was it not? ’ 

‘ It comes too late/ said Michael with a sigh. 4 I care 
little about it now/ 

4 There I think you are wrong. Audrey cares very 
much indeed, and is most anxious that you should inves- 
tigate matters for yourself/ 

He coloured painfully. 4 Is she?* he said. 4 How 
can it affect her? ’ 

Father Noel hailed both the blush and the slight 
faltering of the voice. The thawing process had clearly 
begun. 

4 It may affect her more than you think/ he said, and 
the words were strictly true, but he said them in one 
sense and knew quite well that they would convey a 
very different sense to Michael. 

There was silence for some minutes. The two paced 
on beneath the trees until they came to the water, and 
here, standing on the shore with four snowy swans close 
to the margin of the water, they saw Audrey feeding 
her favourites. 

4 Are they not beautiful creatures? ’ she said. 4 How 
there is only one bit of bread left, — they shall have a 
race for it/ 

She flung it far out and clapped her hands as the 
largest swan followed the prize. 

4 1 knew he would beat the others/ she said. 4 Isn’t 
he splendid with his long, stately neck ? 9 

4 The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to 
the strong/ said Father Noel musingly, and the words 
made Michael pull himself together, for he always in- 
stinctively rebelled against Audrey’s curious admiration 
for mere bulk. 


122 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Fortunately for him, strength was not dependent on 
size. 

‘ Do you think/ said the priest, ‘ that Sir Wilfrid will 
object to your going to Carleton Manor, on your way 
to London? I think you should get speech of Mr. 
Carleton himself. That would be possible, I suppose, 
Audrey? * 

‘ Oh, yes/ said the girl eagerly. ‘ Though he is an 
invalid I think he would certainly see you, and he is the 
only person who knows who it was his daughter ran 
away with; they say he has never mentioned the name 
and that there were all sorts of guesses made at the time 
in Penrith. But old Mrs. Aglionby thinks it must have 
been to some stranger from quite another neighbour- 
hood/ 

They had strolled along as far as the fallen tree, where 
a year before they had sat together on the day of 
Michael’s return; he recognised the place at once and 
sighed as all the old hopes and dreams recurred to his 
mind. 

‘ Tell all about your discovery of the picture/ said 
Father Noel, and for a minute or two he sat down beside 
them, hut soon complained of the cold and wandered 
away by himself. 

The two scarcely noted his departure, for Audrey was 
thoroughly interested in telling exactly what had passed 
at Carleton Manor, and Michael was not only absorbed 
in her description, but seemed unable to take his eyes 
from her face. 

In truth she looked most lovely with her soft grey 
eyes, a trifle wider than usual as she spoke of the appari- 
tion, her face all animation and life, her sunny-brown 
curls lightly stirred by the western wind. And the 
priest had spoken truly, for she did care very much that 
he should follow up the clue she had so strangely dis- 
covered. After all, was his case absolutely hopeless? 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


123 


Wild dreams began to find place in his mind; was there 
not, after all, many a slip ’twixt cup and lip? She was 
not yet wedded to Henry Brownrigg. Mrs. Radcliffe’s 
illness had already delayed the marriage. Might not 
some other chance intervene and once more save her 
from a fate which seemed more intolerable now than 
ever? 

‘It is strange/ he said, ‘but I, too, had the same 
vision of my mother, although only in a dream/ 

He told her of his walk with Father Noel, and of how 
he had waited on the Styhead Pass and had seen what 
he had never for a moment doubted to be his mother; 
and then with far more hope than he had felt at 
the time, he told all that had passed at Watendlath, 
Audrey listening with that whole-hearted attention 
which she had always shown in matters that concerned 
him. 

By and bye he took the copy of Thomas a Kempis 
from his pocket and they looked at it together. Audrey’s 
thoughts were of that strange romance of the past; ab- 
sorbed in picturing poor Lucy, whose sweet, sad face had 
been stamped on her heart ever since she had seen it at 
the gate of Carleton Manor, she never paused to reflect 
that her curls brushed Michael’s cheek and fell on his 
hand as together they bent over the book. But he was 
conscious of it in every fibre of his being, and it was 
with a bewildered wonder that he read mechanically on 
the page at which Audrey had opened, the description 
of a man who, hundreds of years before, had somehow 
attained to a peace of mind which seemed scarcely 
credible. 

‘ He committed himself wholly to the will of God, 
and that noisome anxiety ceased. Neither had he the 
mind to search curiously any farther, to know what 
should befall him; but rather laboured to understand 
what was the perfect and acceptable will of God 


124 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


for the beginning and accomplishing of every good 
work/ 

Audrey read on thoughtfully, hut his eyes were no 
longer on the hook, hut on that bright soft tress of hair 
which rested on the back of his hand. 

At that moment a shadow darkened the sunlight and 
made them both look up hastily, imagining that Father 
Noel had strolled back towards them along the grassy 
path. Audrey gave a little exclamation of surprise and 
pleasure when she saw that it was not the priest at all, 
but Henry Brownrigg. She greeted him gaily, and 
never noticed the expression on his face until he turned 
to Michael with the stiffest and most unfriendly of salu- 
tations. Then she glanced in perplexity from one to 
the other. What did it all mean? Both men were 
evidently furious; her lover’s brow wore a frown so 
menacing and stormy that for the first time in her life 
she was afraid of him; while Michael, with flushed face 
and over-bright eyes, stood by erect and scornful, defi- 
ance in his whole attitude. 

There was an awkward pause; she had an instinct that 
unless she broke it quickly something terrible would 
happen, and with an effort she made a step or two for- 
ward and put her hand on Henry Brownrigg’s arm. 

c See/ she said gently, ‘ we were looking at this book 
which was found at Watendlath. It belonged to 
Michael’s mother and will form a link in the chain of 
evidence he is getting together.’ 

c Indeed! ’ he said with sarcasm in his voice, and tak- 
ing the book from her hand, he gave it to Michael with 
a formal bow, and a look which said as plainly as words, 
* I should like to throw it at your head if courtesy did 
not forbid.’ 

Michael glanced swiftly at Audrey; her clear, inno- 
cent eyes had a troubled look. He felt that for her sake 
he ought not to linger. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 125 

f I have an errand in Keswick/ he said, ‘ and shall not 
return till supper time. Can I do anything for you in 
the town ? ’ 

She thanked him, but said she needed nothing, and 
with a sense of relief saw him disappear among the trees, 
leaving her alone with her lover. 

‘ How long has that boy been here with you?* said 
Henry in an angry voice. 

* Michael? He came with Sir Wilfrid Lawson just 
before dinner/ 

‘You know very well I meant what o’clock was it 
when he came out here with you alone/ 

Perhaps she resented his masterful tone, or perhaps it 
was merely her innate love of teasing which made her 
reply with a laugh: 

‘ As Orlando said to Rosalind, “ There’s no clock in 
the forest! ” ’ 

4 1 will not have him hanging about you! ’ said Henry 
Brownrigg furiously. 4 Can’t you see yourself how un- 
seemly it is?’ 

4 1 don’t understand you,’ she said, colouring. 
‘Michael is my foster-brother. I knew him long be- 
fore I knew you. If my grandfather and my mother 
choose to invite him here as a guest it is not your place 
to complain that we talk together/ 

Henry Brownrigg had the shrewdness to see that he 
had made a mistake in adopting such a tone to his be- 
trothed, and with an effort he refrained from saying 
another word as to Michael, though his heart was still 
hot within him. 

‘ Of course you very naturally wished to tell your 
ghost story,’ he said, allowing his face to relax into a 
smile. ‘ I had forgotten that.’ 

Then seeing that she still looked grave and displeased, 
he threw his arm about her, and began to tell her of the 
wearing work he had had to do that morning, and to 


126 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


speak of the future when he should have her always 
near to gladden his life. 

‘ But I am forgetting the special reason of my visit/ 
he said at length. ‘ It was to ask whether you and Mrs. 
Radcliffe will not spend a day with us next week. The 
short distance to Millbeck Hall would surely not he too 
much for your mother, and there are many things to 
discuss and arrange before our marriage/ 

‘We could come for the day/ said Audrey, ‘but in- 
deed I don’t think my mother can spare me yet; she is 
not strong. Don’t urge her to fix any early date for 
the wedding/ 

She could hardly have explained why for the first 
time she felt a dread of her lover; she was not in the 
least accustomed to analysing her thoughts. Had she 
done so she might have discovered that the entire blind- 
ness of her admiration was at an end; his revelation of 
petty jealousy of so old a friend as Michael, the insuffer- 
able manner in which he had looked at her foster- 
brother, had in reality opened her eyes to perceive some- 
thing of his true character. How, love has power to see 
faults and blemishes and still to love on, because it goes 
deeper than the faults, and loves what shall one day be 
perfected. But the so-called love which is only admira- 
tion is quickly killed by the sudden discovery of serious 
failings; never having penetrated below the surface, it 
withers and dies easily enough. 

Audrey’s admiration of her betrothed was by no 
means ended that October afternoon, but the perfect 
content she had enjoyed during the first part of their 
engagement was over. Had she been able to follow him 
when he left her his true self would have been plainly 
revealed, but unfortunately she never guessed that he 
rode away from Stable Hills Farm with the full inten- 
tion of overtaking Michael before he reached Keswick. 

To his great satisfaction, he came upon him close to 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


127 


Castle Hill, for Michael was on foot. He reined in his 
horse. 

‘ A word with yon, Mr. Derwent, if yon please/ he 
said in his haughtiest tone. 

Michael stood still and looked his rival in the face. 
c Understand plainly, sir/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
‘that I will not endure a repetition of what I saw to- 
day. I will not have yon enjoying private interviews 
with my betrothed/ 

‘Do you dare to dictate to Sir Nicholas Radcliffe’s 
guests? ’ said Michael angrily. ‘Let me remind you, 
sir, that Lord’s Island is not your property/ 

‘ No/ said Henry Brownrigg with a sneer. ‘ It is not, 
but Mistress Audrey Radcliffe is my property/ 

‘ Not yet/ said Michael passionately. ‘ Thank God 
you can’t say that till she is your wife. The law will 
permit you to do it then, and, like Petruchio, I have no 
doubt you’ll proclaim “ She is my goods, my chattels, 
my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything! ” ’ 

‘ Perhaps I shall/ said Henry Brownrigg, determined 
to provoke a quarrel. ‘It is nothing to you. What 
have you to do, pray, with Audrey Radcliffe? You! a 
mere foundling bastard! ’ 

The blood rushed to Michael’s face. 

‘You lie! ’ he said fiercely. ‘ Take back your words 
or give me satisfaction.’ 

‘That would please me better than anything/ said 
Henry Brownrigg with a sneer, ‘ and since you leave 
to-morrow ’ 

He broke off abruptly, for from among the trees and 
bushes which clothed the lower part of Castle Hill there 
suddenly emerged an old and venerable-looking man 
wearing a sober-hued doublet and a plain, broad- 
brimmed hat, black-silk hose of the finest quality, and 
silver shoe buckles which were faultlessly polished. 

‘ Friend/ he said to Michael, ‘ do not forget.’ 


128 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Michael turned to the speaker; his eyes were bright 
with passion, his boyish face flushed, but the Quaker’s 
calm voice and manner exerted over him the same ex- 
traordinary influence as on that March day when he had 
first heard of Audrey’s betrothal. 

‘ Sir,’ he said, ‘ Mr. Brownrigg foully slandered my 
mother. Am I to stand still and endure that? He lies, 
and knows it right well.’ 

‘ If thou dost fight every liar thy sword would never 
be sheathed,’ said the Quaker; ‘ remember the sage who 
sought through a city for one honest man, yet found 
him not for all his seeking. As for thee, Henry Brown- 
rigg, I heard thee stirring up strife with thy unseemly 
words, and, as Audrey Radcliffe’s kinsman, I liked it 
very ill that thou didst so little reverence her as to 
speak of her as thy property in the public way.’ 

‘Had I known, sir, that Mistress Radcliffe’s illustrious 
Quaker cousin, instead of being in prison, was skulking 
among the trees, I would have spoken more carefully,’ 
said Henry Brownrigg with a sneer on his handsome 
face. 

‘ I take thy words as an apology,’ said the Quaker. 
‘ But, nevertheless, ’tis the presence of the Lord, not the 
presence of man, that should teach thee rightly to rever- 
ence woman.’ 

‘ Well, Derwent, the fates are against us,’ said the 
Under-Sheriff with a laugh as he touched up his horse. 
‘It seems that this time we must forego our meeting. 
Better luck, 1 hope, in our next dispute.’ 

Michael, with a sick feeling of disappointment, bowed 
in silence, and watched his rival until he disappeared 
among the trees which bordered the horse track. 

The Quaker eyed him keenly, understanding well 
enough what was passing in his mind. 

‘ Art thou wise to visit at Lord’s Island? ’ he said at 
last. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


129 


‘ I am in attendance on Sir Wilfrid Lawson, sir/ said 
Michael. ‘ The visit was none of my seeking. We 
only rest there to-night on our way to London, and 
there were letters of introduction which Father Noel 
wished to give me.’ 

They walked on together, as they spoke, in the direc- 
tion of Keswick. 

c Do not take it ill of me if I speak plainly to thee 
with regard to Augustine Noel/ said the Quaker. ‘ He 
is, as I know, an old and tried friend of thine, but I 
would have thee careful as to these same letters of intro- 
duction. London is in a troubled state, as I learn from 
my worthy friend George Fox; the very elect may be 
deceived, led, before they know it, into meddling with 
matters of earthly government/ 

* I am the last to wish to dabble in politics/ said 
Michael with an air of distaste, ‘ and am well content 
with our new King and Queen. All I care for is to see 
the town, to get away to something that will be fresh, 
and free from memories. You can never have known, 
sir, what restlessness means/ 

‘ Indeed, Tis a malady that doth too often haunt a 
prison/ said the Quaker with a smile upon his quiet face. 
‘ But Tis a foe to be wrestled with and not lightly 
yielded to. Do not in thy restlessness become like the 
rolling stone of the proverb which gathers no moss. As 
for thy journey to London, that is well enough, only 
have a care and remember that thy life is not thine own. 
Tell me, hast thou room in thy valise for a small book? 
If so I would be much beholden to thee if thou wouldst 
carry it to George Fox, who is scarce likely again to be 
at Swarthmoor Hall, or to venture upon a journey to 
these parts, for he waxes old and feeble/ 

Michael gladly undertook to deliver the packet to the 
great leader of the Friends, and Nathaniel Badcliffe pre- 
vailed upon him to stay and sup at Hye Hill, where, in 
9 


130 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


the stillness of the parlour in which he had once lived 
through so strange an experience, he began once more 
to face the life that lay before him, shamed into patient 
endurance by the silent influence of his Quaker friend. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Recollections of Michael Derwent . 

More than seven months passed by after the March 
day when I first heard of Audrey’s betrothal before I 
again found myself at Hye Hill. Late in October I had 
to attend Sir Wilfrid to London, and on our way, at 
Sir Nicholas Radcliffe’s request, we lay for a night at 
the mansion on Lord’s Island. It chanced unluckily 
that I came across Henry Brownrigg there; and after- 
wards, near Castle Hill, high words passed betwixt us, 
so that we should certainly have fought upon the matter 
had not my Quaker friend suddenly appeared, managed 
to patch up a peace between us, and brought me to his 
house. 

What it was in Nathaniel Radcliffe and that sweet- 
faced old lady his wife which wrought so strange an 
effect on me I never can tell. I went into their house 
heated and chafed and at war with fate; I came out 
again calmed, and with a strength that made me ready 
to face outer storms. Yet they never preached at me, — 
it was not the Quaker way to speak much of religion. 
They were just friends; and it was not what they did or 
what they spoke, but what they were in themselves, 
which somehow worked like magic. My old fancy that 
Hye Hill was heaven, came back to me curiously that 
night, and perhaps, after all, the dream had not been 
wholly wrong; for in this old couple there certainly was 
a heavenly-mindedness I never saw elsewhere. Had 


132 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


they gained it in those long years of persecution and 
imprisonment? Was it the reward — the martyr’s crown 
— won by their patient suffering? 

All the way back to Lord’s Island I pondered 
over it. 

There was a light in the window of the withdrawing- 
room, and in the still evening air I caught the sound of 
music as William Hollins set me down at the landing- 
place. 

Drawing nearer, the whole room became clearly vis- 
ible to me. Sir Nicholas, in his armchair by the hearth, 
beat time feebly with his long, slender hand; Mrs. Rad- 
cliff e was playing at chess with Sir Wilfrid, while 
Audrey, with her nut-brown hair gleaming like gold in 
the lamplight, sang to her lute Ben Jonson’s song, ‘ See 
the chariot at hand here of love.’ 

Her voice, though sweet, was not very strong, and the 
charm of her singing lay in the clear, unaffected way in 
which she rendered the words. I could have wished it 
had not been so that night, for each phrase seemed to 
have its own special torture for me. 

* Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 

Before rude hands have touched it ? 

Have you mark’d but the fall of the snow 
Before the soil hath smutched it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan’s down ever ? 

Or have smelt the bud of the briar ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

O, so white ! O, so soft ! O, so sweet is she ! ’ 

The very unconsciousness with which she sang seemed 
to heighten the charm of the song. I turned away 
trembling like a palsied man. 

In the hall I came across Father Noel. He was pac- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


133 


ing to and fro, breviary in hand, and with one of his 
swift glances he read my face. Audrey’s lute still 
sounded through the silent house. 

‘ Welcome back again,’ he said with his pleasant smile. 
‘ Will you join them in the withdrawing-room, or will 
you have supper first ? ’ 

‘I supped at Hye Hill,’ I replied, and then briefly 
told him of the dispute with Henry Brownrigg and of 
the Quaker’s intervention. 

f He was quite right,’ said Father Noel. ‘ You were 
ever too ready to fight that braggart. Henry Brownrigg 
needs tackling in other ways. Do not forget to see 
what you can of my friend Mr. Calverley when you 
reach London; and now let us join the others.’ 

But I hung back and begged him to make my excuses, 
to say that I was preparing for the journey, or was indis- 
posed, for to meet Audrey again at that minute seemed 
to me intolerable. 

The priest, however, with a persistence that 1 could 
not understand, would take no refusal, and I was forced 
to follow him into the room where the family was as- 
sembled. He could not force me, however, to approach 
Audrey. I stood by the fire near Sir Nicholas, while 
Father Noel took the vacant chair close to the singer 
and asked for one song after another, deliberately choos- 
ing — or so it seemed to me — the ones that would give 
me the keenest pain. That he hated Henry Brownrigg 
and shrank from the idea of the marriage I knew well 
enough, but why, now that the betrothal was a fact, did 
he add to my misery by compelling me to meet the 
woman I vainly loved? 

I had reached Lord’s Island that morning with a 
heart like a lump of ice, but when I left the next day, 
after a miserable night haunted by visions of past happi- 
ness, love and passion and pain raged within me once 
more, and dreams as wild as an old fairy tale began to 


134 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


take shape in my mind as I rode beside Sir Wilfrid to 
Penrith. 

In the forenoon of the following day I rode to Carle- 
ton Manor. Audrey had described the house so well 
that I seemed to know every stone of it, and standing in 
the morning sunshine, the whole place seemed steeped 
in peace. It was what they call St. Luke’s summer; 
not a breath of wind stirred the russet and gold of the 
trees, only now and then a leaf detached itself from its 
twig and fluttered noiselessly down upon the smooth 
green turf below. One could hardly picture that rest- 
less, sad spirit, which Audrey had described, haunting a 
place where all things seemed so tranquil. 

Feeling not unlike Jack the giant-killer, I blew the 
horn which hung beside the great door, and after some 
little delay an old serving-man appeared in somewhat 
shabby livery. I inquired whether it were possible to 
see Mr. Carleton. 

The old man looked at me very narrowly. A puzzled 
expression stole over his wrinkled face. 

4 The master sees few guests, being an invalid/ he 
said. 

‘ But I come on an urgent matter and bring letters of 
introduction/ I said persuasively. Whereupon the old 
man, still eyeing me very curiously, permitted me to 
enter, and ushering me into a small anteroom, took the 
letter with which Mrs. Radcliffe had furnished me and 
hobbled off into the adjoining apartment. 

‘ Don’t disturb me/ said a harsh, irritable voice, 
plainly audible through the open door. 

The toothless old serving-man was not so audible, but 
I heard a remonstrating mumble. 

‘I tell you I will not be disturbed. Curse your 
impudence.’ 

‘Mumble, mumble, mumble.’ 

‘ Well, open the confounded letter, then, and hand it 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


135 


to me to read, you idiot! What! Mrs. Radcliffe, who 
was in the overturned coach? Humph! I suppose I 
must see the gentleman. Shift my leg for me, you 
blockhead, and show him in/ 

I began to think it would be no pleasant task to go 
and claim kinship with this irascible old invalid, and 
my heart heat fast as I was shown into the presence of 
a white-haired and most crabbed-looking veteran of 
about eighty, who gave me a ceremonious greeting, and 
inquired after Mrs. Radcliffe’s health. When I had 
replied to that, there followed an uncomfortable pause. 
Some instinct warned me as I looked at old Mr. Carleton 
not to beat about the bush, but to speak straightfor- 
wardly, even abruptly. 

‘ Sir/ I said, ‘ you will wonder what hath brought me 
here to trouble you with a question, seeing that I am a 
total stranger. But perhaps you will bear with me 
when I tell you that all my life will be overclouded till 
my question is answered. My mother was deserted by 
her husband just before my birth; she died refusing to 
reveal his name, and only within the last few months 
have I discovered her maiden name. It is written in 
this book/ And with that I opened and held towards 
him the copy of Thomas a Kempis. 

His bushy white eyebrows contracted as he peered 
down at the inscription; then with a fierce, quick move- 
ment he clutched me by the shoulder and drew me down 
that he might more closely scan my face. The scrutiny 
would have been embarrassing, but something in the old 
man’s eager eyes arrested my attention, and I fell to 
thinking of him rather than of myself. There was 
something piteous after all about his crabbed, solitary, 
old age. 

‘You are Lucy’s son; there is no doubt about that/ 
he said, falling back to his former position. ‘ The child 
of her shame/ 


136 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ Sir,’ I said, ‘ I have met one who actually witnessed 
my mother’s marriage; he is one whose word you could 
not possibly doubt — as worthy a baronet as is to be 
found in all the county of Durham. He pledged him- 
self at the time not to reveal her husband’s name. That 
is why I come to you to-day to ask it.’ 

‘You come to me?’ he said with a bitter, mirth- 
less laugh. ‘You could not have come to a worse 
person.’ 

‘ Surely, sir,’ I pleaded, ‘ you will not withhold from 
me my own father’s name. I have a right to know it, 
— if only that I may call him to account for having first 
deserted my mother and then done his best to murder 
me by the Spartan plan of exposure.’ 

Old Mr. Carleton’s eyes lit up with a gleam of some- 
thing like sympathy. 

‘ I like your spirit,’ he said. ‘ I would help you if I 
could, but that arch-deceiver’s name is still unknown to 
me. My daughter did not see fit to inform me who it 
was that imposed upon her, who it was in whose honour 
she confided rather than in the honour of the father to 
whom she owed everything.’ 

This unexpected blow fairly staggered me. 

‘ You do not know even his name?’ I faltered. ‘ Then 
surely you must be able at least to guess which of her 
admirers she was likely to favour.’ 

‘ Indeed, sir, I can do nothing of the kind,’ said the 
old man bitterly. ‘You have doubtless heard from 
Mrs. Radcliffe the current version of the tale. You not 
unnaturally side with your mother, but now hear my 
side of the story. I have never spoken of it from that 
day to this, but now methinks I have a mind that Lucy’s 
son should hear both versions. Have the goodness, sir, 
to cross the room and open the doors of that Japan 
cabinet.’ 

I obeyed, turned the curiously wrought brass key, and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


137 


revealed the daintily arranged pigeonholes and drawers 
inside. 

‘ Now press with your fingers on the bottom of the 
centre compartment/ said Mr. Carleton. 

This apparently touched a spring, for out flew a little 
secret drawer in which there lay a letter yellow with 
age. 

Mr. Carleton told me to bring it to him, and motioned 
to me to resume my former place. 

‘My wife had died/ he said, ‘at the birth of our 
second daughter, and thus, at twelve years old, Lucy 
found herself mistress of this house. I had no fault to 
find with her ; she was dutiful and affectionate. I 
expected perfect obedience, and she never refused it 
until it came to the time of her proposed marriage ; 
then, without any warning, she changed her whole 
method of behaviour, and flatly refused to marry the 
husband I had chosen for her. It became a contest of 
wills. I knew that I should not yield, and thought that 
with time and patience we should bring her to hear 
reason. But the girl was old for her years, had some 
inkling of what marriage involved, and vowed that 
nothing on earth should make her wed worthy Sir 
James Grey, because, forsooth, he was, like other gentle- 
men, a little over-free at times with the wine. At last, 
as you know, she fled from home, and the news brought 
to me the next day so shattered my health that by the 
time I could attend to things again it was useless to 
search for her/ 

‘ But she wrote?’ I said, eagerly glancing at the letter. 

‘ Ay, weeks after her flight this letter arrived — it had 
evidently been delayed on the road. Probably her 
lover saw to that. Read it, sir, and see what you make 
of it/ 

I unfolded the letter; it was written in a clear, round 
hand, but the spelling was in many places faulty. 


38 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘My Deare Sir: 

To have disobeyed you and given you griefe pains me, but 
I could not wed Sir James. I knew you would not relent; 
therefore my only course was to leave home. I had intended 
to go to old Betty the nursekeeper at York, but on the road, 
being in danger from a highwayman, I was courteously rescued 
by a gentleman that was journeying with a friend to London. 
They vowed to protect me, and we journeyed on together. 
Deare sir, my kindly rescuer hath won my heart, and hath prom- 
ised to wed me when we reach London. He is a gentleman 
of an honourable family, and I truste you will pardon me for 
having prifered him to the husband you had chosen for me, 
since to wed Sir James would have been lifelong miserie to me. 
I pray you to forgive me, and to let me know of yure forgive- 
ness, deare sir. I will write again from London to send you 
word where we have made our home. Pardon this ill writ 
letter ; the messenger waits and I am in haste, as we travel on 
at once. 

I remain, yure most affectionate daughter, 

Lucy Carleton.’ 

‘And did she write again? ’ I asked eagerly. 

‘ Never again/ said the old man, bitterly. ‘ She had 
at least enough good feeling to hide her shame/ 

‘ But, sir, I have seen an eye-witness of her marriage/ 
I said. ‘ Surely it was her sorrow and disappointment 
in having wedded one who quickly tired of her that kept 
her silent. Nor did she know whether you would for- 
give her flight/ 

The old man’s eyes seemed to soften a little; he looked 
at me very searchingly. 

‘ Sir/ he said, ‘ you are young and hopeful. I think 
you have not yet seen much of the world. For my own 
part I believe your worthy baronet, who witnessed the 
marriage ceremony, was hoodwinked by his scoundrel of 
a friend. We all know that it is easy enough to go 
through a form of marriage. Your mother, I doubt not, 
was easily deceived. She was like you, slow to suspect 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


139 


evil, and altogether wanting in judgment. She pre- 
ferred this adventurer, this total stranger, to the hus- 
band I had chosen for her — one who owned as fair an 
estate as could be desired/ 

The thought that Sir Christopher Vane had been 
deceived had not occurred to me, and I remembered re- 
luctantly, and with an effort to suppress the thought, 
that he must have been very young at the time, and a 
mere country-bred lad. 

‘I’ll not rest till I have met my father face to face 
and heard the truth from his own lips/ I said, starting 
up with a longing to set off on my quest there and then. 

Old Mr. Carleton watched me in silence for a minute. 

‘ Take that letter with you/ he said. 1 It may be of 
use in proving matters. Cod grant you may succeed 
in calling that villain to account. God grant, that I 
may live to see him suffer as he deserves/ 

‘Amen to that/ I said hotly, for the old man’s 
righteous anger touched an answering chord in my 
heart. 

4 Sir/ I pleaded after a moment’s silence, 4 there is 
one favour I would ask you. Mistress Audrey Radcliffe 
spoke of a picture of my mother which she saw here in 
one of the upper rooms. I would fain see it with your 
permission, and judge how far it corresponds with this 
miniature.’ 

He held out his hand eagerly for the miniature, and 
gazed at it for some minutes in silence, then made me 
tell him exactly when and where it had been found. 

4 Depend upon it, ’twas a mock marriage/ he said. 
4 Why should a man be so anxious to be rid of all traces 
of his dead wife? And why should he practically mur- 
der his own son and heir? But all the more reason that 
you do your utmost to search for this villain and expose 
him. Ring that bell, sir, and I will send for the picture. 
Timothy/ he added as the old serving-man appeared, 


140 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


* bring down once more the portrait that used to hang 
above the sideboard/ 

The old servant, with an involuntary start of aston- 
ishment at such a command, disappeared, favouring me, 
however, with a keen glance as he left the room. 

* You bear your story in your face/ said Mr. Carleton. 
‘ The fellow sees who you are/ Then with that curious, 
intent look in which I could not help thinking there 
lurked something like affection, the old man gripped 
hold of my hand. ‘ You must not take it ill of me/ he 
said, 1 if I ask you to do me a favour. Left as a found- 
ling, you cannot have much of this world’s goods to 
help you on your way/ 

‘ Sir Wilfrid Lawson gave me my education, sir, and I 
have my salary of eighteen pounds a year and the use of 
a horse, that is more than many secretaries receive/ 

‘ True/ he replied. e He has dealt generously with 
you, but if you are to trace out this scoundrel you will 
need money, and I would fain have my money used for 
such a purpose. Take this purse and furnish yourself 
with all that you need; nay, I’ll take no refusal! Use 
it, if not to pleasure me, then to avenge your mother/ 

It was impossible after this to decline the old man’s 
gift, and indeed little more could be said, for at that 
moment the serving-man entered, staggering under the 
weight of an oil painting nearly as tall as himself. Very 
eagerly I looked at the picture Audrey had described, 
and saw at once that it exactly corresponded with the 
miniature; moreover, I could see in this larger portrait 
more distinctly that the face was indeed as my own. 

I glanced towards old Mr. Carleton and saw that his 
wrinkled face was quivering with emotion. He held 
out his hand in farewell, evidently unable to endure any 
more. 

* Go and prosper/ he said fervently. ‘ Avenge her, 
sir! Avenge her! ’ 


CHAPTER XV 


Recollections of Michael Derwent. 

Our journey to London was uneventful but somewhat 
tedious, and I was heartily glad when we at length 
reached the house of Sir Wilfrid’s friend, Sir William 
Denham. It stood in Norfolk Street, betwixt the river 
and the Strand, and was to be our headquarters during 
our stay, for the two were close friends, and had many 
hobbies in common, both being lovers of science and 
keen naturalists. 

The actual day of our arrival had not of course been 
fixed, and we chanced to get in on an evening when 
guests had been bidden. 

Now, one of the smaller discomforts of my life had 
always been the uncertainty of position which attaches 
to anyone in such circumstances. Most men are fixed 
by fate either in one sphere or the other. I hovered 
uncertainly on the borderland, one of the waifs of the 
world, yet educated as a gentleman, and enjoying many 
privileges owing to Sir Wilfrid’s kind-heartedness and 
to the affection which he had always shown me. At 
Isel I had never anything to complain of, and at Raby, 
thanks to Sir Christopher Vane’s interest on the night 
of our arrival, I had been treated precisely like any 
other guest. But elsewhere often enough there were 
snubs and disagreeables to be encountered, those petty 
vexations which affect an older and wiser mortal 
very little, but rankle bitterly when one is young, 


142 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and has not yet learnt to look on such matters philo- 
sophically. 

Supper was going on when we reached the house, and 
having hastily donned evening dress, we were shown to 
the dining-room by an old servant named Thomas, who 
pompously announced Sir Wilfrid as he flung open the 
door, and then gripping my arm, said in a stage aside: 

‘ There ain’t no more room, sir; as it is, I’m putting 
Sir Wilfrid into the place of Lord Downshire’s chap- 
lain. Luckily the roast had been removed and he’d 
returned thanks. One can always turn out the chap- 
lain before the sweets are served. You are the secretary, 
I believe, sir? ’ He looked up questioningly as though 
he would say: e Don’t let us have any mistakes; if you 
are a gentleman of means, say so at once, and I’ll 
apologise.’ 

‘Yes, I am the secretary,’ I replied, unable to sup- 
press a smile as I saw the expression of the old man’s 
face and the relieved air with which he received my 
answer. 

* Then step this way, sir; you’ll find the parson to 
keep you company.’ 

‘ But I can’t eat the parson, and I am as hungry as a 
hunter,’ I suggested, seeing that the fellow was evidently 
an old family servant and looked capable of taking a 
joke. 

His broad shoulders shook, and he promised to bring 
me some supper without delay, which was as well, for 
the chaplain was the most lean and scraggy of men, and 
even a cannibal would scarce have deemed his bones 
worth picking. He bowed rather stiffly as I entered. 

‘ I am the Reverend Ambrose Newfold, chaplain to 
my Lord Downshire,’ he said pompously. ‘ May I ask 
your name, sir? ’ 

‘I am Michael Derwent, secretary to Sir Wilfrid 
Lawson, of Isel Hall, Cumberland,’ I replied, glancing 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


143 


round the somewhat comfortless little room, which con- 
tained nothing warmer in the grate than some very curi- 
ous specimens of stuffed birds, and nothing more edible 
than cases of eminently dull fossils ranged all round the 
walls. We had journeyed far that day, and I was both 
hungry and cold, nor did the savoury odours from the 
next room help to make matters more pleasant. I 
yawned prodigiously, which seemed to offend the rev- 
erend Ambrose. 

e It is a most unseemly custom/ he said sourly, ‘ that 
the chaplain should be asked to withdraw when the 
meat is removed; a great insult to the church in the 
person of her unworthy representative/ 

‘ For my part I think you came off very well, sir/ I 
said with a laugh. ‘ I would willingly dispense with 
the sweets if only they would bring me a good plate of 
beef and a tankard of ale/ 

‘ Sir/ said the chaplain, ‘ I thought of no such carnal 
matters; it is the insult to the cloth that I resent — the 
insult to the cloth, — sir/ 

‘ Oh, hang the insult ! 9 I replied, chafed by the man’s 
pettishness. ‘ For the matter of that, they have in- 
sulted my pen far worse, for I never got a chance of 
sitting down to table at all. The truth of the matter is, 
sir, that there was no room, and had not Sir Wilfrid 
Lawson arrived just at that precise time, you might have 
said grace without any latent resentment/ 

‘Do you suppose, sir/ said the chaplain angrily, 
‘ that I hankered after the paltry cakes of the pastry 
cook? ’ 

‘I ask your pardon; it was perhaps the natural in- 
ference of a hungry man/ I said, dropping into the 
nearest chair and relapsing into silence. But ill-humour 
is infectious, and the chaplain’s fit of discontent soon 
attacked me, so that I fell to wondering gloomily 
whether it was always to be my lot to take the lowest 


144 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


place, to see the Henry Brownriggs of the world gaining 
all that I coveted, and to remain to the end of my days 
merely a rich man’s secretary. 

As for the serving-man, he seemed basely to have 
deserted me, and though hunger is said to be the best 
sauce, it is apt to make a man decidedly short-tempered, 
so that each moment as I waited I hated that lean chap- 
lain with a more deadly hatred, and only longed to be 
rid of the sight of his lantern jaws. 

At last there was a sound of voices and steps without, 
and then the door opened, and in came a lady in prim- 
rose-coloured satin, with filmy white lace about her 
neck and shoulders. She was a brunette, with soft, 
stag-like eyes, which somehow were sad even when they 
smiled. I guessed her to be about thirty, but found 
later on that she was younger than she looked. 

* I am afraid, Mr. Newfold/ she said, turning with an 
apologetic air to the chaplain, ‘ that old Thomas treated 
you somewhat unceremoniously. In his anxiety to 
make ready for Sir Wilfrid Lawson, he hurried you 
away most abruptly. He is such a good old fellow that 
we put up with his brusque tongue; he has been with my 
uncle for five and thirty years/ 

The chaplain was obliged to accept the apology, and 
in the meantime Sir William Denham’s niece had be- 
come aware of my presence, and the parson seeing her 
bewilderment, presented me. 

6 This is Sir Wilfrid Lawson’s secretary,’ he said in his 
raucous voice. ‘ Mr. Michael Derwent, Mistress Mary 
Denham.’ 

The lady curtseyed very graciously. 

f Why,’ she exclaimed warmly, ‘ you have been worse 
treated even than Mr. Newfold, and have had no supper 
at all. I shall have to give Thomas a thorough scold- 
ing. Come, Mr. Newfold, my aunt is longing for a 
game of chess with you in the withdrawing-room. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


145 


Please find your own way up while I give orders about 
Mr. Derwent’s supper/ 

The chaplain, glad, I am sure, to leave my uncon- 
genial society, hurried upstairs, and in a few minutes 
Mistress Denham reappeared, followed by the guilty 
Thomas, who, to make up for his misdeeds, provided me 
at length with the best that the house could afford, 
waiting upon me with sedulous attention, while Mistress 
Denham took the chair which the chaplain had vacated 
and chatted to me in the most friendly and comfortable 
way about our journey. 

In what her great charm lay I have never been able 
to tell. She was not to be compared for one moment in 
beauty with Audrey Radcliffe, and her face, though 
sweet and winning, had quite lost its youthfulness. I 
think it must have been her frank friendliness and the 
consciousness that she had a large share of womanly 
wisdom that so won me to her. No other woman ever 
held just the same place in my life that she was destined 
to fill. For Audrey Radcliffe an undying and passion- 
ate love brought me as much pain as rapture; for Mrs. 
Radcliffe I had a genuine affection, but it was tempered 
by a certain resentment, for I knew that the betrothal 
of her daughter to Henry Brownrigg had been to a great 
extent a matter of her own arrangement. Then there 
was Lady Lawson, who had always been most kind to 
me, but who was naturally much absorbed by her own 
children and the claims of her great household. 

In Mistress Mary Denham I for the first time came 
across one who seemed almost as much alone in the 
world, as far as near relations went, as myself; this made 
her able to understand, as others could not understand, 
many things in my life. There was, moreover, about 
her what I have never observed in any other woman — a 
sort of genius for friendship, and a power of throwing 
herself wholly into the lives of her friends. She seemed 
10 


146 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


to move in a different region to most women, as though 
the page of personal desire in the book of her life had 
been turned while she was yet quite young, and she was 
now intent only in the lives of other people. It was not 
in that first evening that I learnt to understand her 
fully, but it was then that the charm began to work. 
For certainly part of her fascination was that she in 
many ways perplexed one, being full of curious contra- 
dictions. Surrounded by the friends she had won by 
her friendliness, yet always somehow giving you the im- 
pression of loneliness; dressed like a woman of the 
world, yet with something in her manner which sug- 
gested the simplicity and straightforwardness of a 
Quaker; frank and genial, yet always beyond a certain 
point curiously reserved; and quite free from the desire 
to make an impression, which is the bane of most people. 

There was absolutely nothing in our talk of the North 
road and of the difficulties of the way, of the state of 
London, and of the recent events, that would be worth 
setting down, but nevertheless for the first time since I 
had quitted Hye Hill I was conscious of that rest of 
mind and heart which had first come to me among the 
Quakers. 

Later on, when we were in the crowded withdrawing- 
room, where some had betaken themselves to cards, and 
others to talk, while in one corner a string quartette dis- 
coursed sweet music, I, — still watching the wearer of 
the primrose-satin gown as she moved about among 
her uncle’s guests, with her sweet, restful face, — was 
carried away in thought to that calm-faced man who 
had walked down the box-bordered path between the 
apple-trees in the place I had dreamily mistaken for 
heaven. Was it, after all, merely a fancy that these two 
had already reached in some degree that state of 
heavenly citizenship? that it was this that made them 
so ready of access, so open-hearted to one who was but 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


147 


a stranger? Surely nothing else would have made it 
possible to accept all they gave without reluctance, or 
hesitation ; nothing else could have given me that 
curious sense of kinship with them. 

The old Quaker had doubtless attained to this state 
while suffering so patiently his long years of imprison- 
ment. But how had this gentle-faced lady gained the 
serene heights which to one in the midst of the battle 
looked so unattainable? 

There was much talk that evening of the festivities 
that were to take place on the 5th of November, the 
anniversary of the King’s landing at Brixham, and Sir 
Wilfrid, to my no small content, not only arranged that 
I should attend him when he went to Whitehall, but 
carried me off the very next morning to a tailor specially 
recommended by Mistress Denham’s cousin, Rupert. 

How it was that while desperately miserable about 
Audrey’s betrothal, and thirsting to avenge my mother’s 
honour, and distracted by the wildest visions of what 
the future might bring, I could yet find satisfaction in 
the colour of a vest or the cut of a doublet, or the fine- 
ness of a lace cravat, I know not. But so it was; and I 
am fain to confess that I took keen pleasure in donning 
for the first time a court suit of tawny-brown velvet, 
and silken hose of the approved shade of orange, and a 
long vest of rich cream satin with innumerable gold 
buttons, together with fine lace frills and furbelows, 
and a rakish-looking three-cornered hat on the top of 
a freshly dressed peruke. 

Mistress Denham seemed in good spirits when we set 
out on the evening of the fifth. She wore a very beauti- 
ful dress of flame-coloured brocade; her brown hair was 
turned back from the forehead and dressed high over a 
cushion according to the fashion then prevailing, and 
about her slender throat she wore a row of fine pearls. 
Nothing could have been less Quakerlike than such 


148 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


attire, and yet, as ever, she made me think of the Society 
of Friends, and the necklace made me think of that 
poem — ‘ The Perle ’ — which some set down to the great 
Chancer; so that all the evening I was haunted by the 
lines — 

‘ He grant us to be His servants leal, 

And precious pearls for His pleasance. ’ 

‘It is all so different, so happily different to the 
Whitehall I can remember in King Charles’ time, seven 
years ago/ she said to me as we entered the great gal- 
lery, which was thronged with people. ‘ And yet, in 
spite of all King William’s good intentions, the strict 
orders he gave for toleration to be shown towards Papists 
and Nonconformists, his repeal of the hearth tax, and 
his honest endeavour to make the Whigs and the Tories 
work together for the real good of England, he is greatly 
misunderstood and seems far from popular.’ 

We were greeted just then by Rupert Denham’s 
brother-in-law, a young barrister named Wharncliffe, 
whom I had already met at the house in Norfolk Street. 
Mistress Mary Denham fell into conversation with his 
pretty wife, who was one of her closest friends, and Mr. 
Wharncliffe began to tell me how Parliament had re- 
versed the attainders of Colonel Algernon Sydney, of 
Lord Russell, and of the Lady Alice Lisle. I had heard 
from the Denhams how some years ago he had well-nigh 
lost his life in Newgate while they tried by every means 
short of actual torture to make him give evidence 
against Colonel Sydney, and could understand how keen 
an interest he would take in this act of reparation. 
Only it saddened one to see that evil can never be really 
undone; the hardships he had endured in prison had 
sown the seeds of disease in him, and it was easy to tell 
by his over-bright eyes, by the unnatural beauty of his 
colouring, and by the soft but troublesome cough which 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


149 


seemed habitual to him, that he was already in consump- 
tion. However, for the present he was as happy as a man 
well can he; was the father of three delicate hut very 
winsome little children, and was blessed with a most 
charming wife, who looked capable of taking the utmost 
care of him, and prolonging his life by her tender care 
to the longest possible span. He was a pleasant com- 
panion, and pointed out to me many well-known people 
as we stood there waiting for the entrance of the royal 
party. 

‘ There goes my Lord Devonshire/ he said, indicating 
a magnificently dressed nobleman clad in orange and 
green. ‘ He is Lord Steward of the household, and is 
a great lover of balls. One of his greatest annoyances 
is that the court halls cannot he given in the splendid 
rooms which King Charles built for the Duchess of 
Portsmouth, for the Princess Anne, at the Revolution, 
got King William to promise them to her, and though 
the Queen did her utmost to get her to relinquish them, 
she will not yield; in fact, she has for her private use not 
only that splendid suite, hut the Cockpit as well. 
Whether ’tis her doing or the doing of her favourite 
Lady Marlborough, no one really knows, but between 
them they have certainly obtained a very goodly 
heritage/ 

‘ Who is that handsome Dutch boy ? 9 I inquired, 
glancing at a youth who passed close to us in eager 
conversation with a young Irishman. 

‘That/ said Mr. Wharncliffe, ‘is young Arnold van 
Keppel, the King’s favourite page, and his companion 
is Dillon, the aide-de-camp to my Lord Marlborough. 
According to van Keppel, the King hates Lord Marl- 
borough and speaks of him as “that vile man.” Like 
most of the silent and quiet people in the world, his 
Majesty has a pretty insight into character and well 
knows with whom he has to deal. Ah! the doors are 


150 HOPE THE HERMIT 

being thrown open; the King and Queen are about to 
come in/ 

I looked eagerly in the direction to which all eyes 
turned, and frankly confess that at first a chill of sur- 
prise and disappointment ran through me; for the de- 
liverer who had responded to the appeal of the oppressed 
people of England, the conqueror who had freed us 
from the despotism of King James, was a little, sickly- 
looking man with that air of constant suffering which 
is too often mistaken for crossness, and in addition one 
of those careworn brows which betoken a mind inces- 
santly harassed by vexatious details. He was much 
shorter than the Queen, who, in her white-satin robes, 
orange-lined train, and magnificent diamonds, seemed 
to tower above him. She was strikingly handsome, and 
had just the lively charm of manner in which his Maj- 
esty was so singularly lacking, but from the tone of 
the talk that I heard later on I doubt if she was really 
any more popular than her husband; for after effusively 
welcoming the new King and Queen people seemed 
mercilessly ready to criticise them. If the King looked 
grave he was instantly dubbed a sullen, ill-mannered 
Dutchman. If her Majesty exerted herself to be ani- 
mated and gay, people promptly said she was a most 
heartless daughter, and ought to be mourning over the 
sad plight in which her poor father found himself. 

They seemed quite to forget that the English them- 
selves had summoned the new monarchs to their aid and, 
by their own act, had placed them on the throne which 
King James had deserted when he found that his tyr- 
anny would no longer be tolerated. 

Dancing now began, and the pleasure of watching it 
had not had time to pall upon me, when my attention 
was distracted by feeling upon me the piercing gaze of 
a pair of eyes which seemed to have in them a most 
curious influence. Shifting a little in my place, I looked 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


I5i 

across the gallery, compelled almost against my will to 
meet the gaze of a gentleman several years my senior. 
He wore a suit of black velvet laced with silver, and a 
light peruke, and there was something in his face which 
attracted and interested me. 

‘ Who is that gentleman standing close to my Lord 
Portland ? 5 I inquired. 

6 Why, that/ replied Mr. Wharncliffe, ‘ is a man I am 
surprised to see here. His name is Calverley, and, 
though 5 tis not generally known, I have good reason to 
believe that he is a Papist. At the chambers next to 
mine in King’s Bench Walk, there is a barrister named 
Winter — as good a fellow as breathes, but hampered not 
a little in his career because he comes of the well-known 
Papist family of that name. I was once introduced to 
yonder gentleman in his rooms, and have passed him 
many times on the staircase. His name is Calverley . 5 

‘ Why, then he must be the very man to whom I 
brought a book from Father Noel , 5 I exclaimed. ‘ See, 
he is coming this way. I beg you to introduce me to 
him . 5 

The stranger bowed very courteously, and thanked 
me for the packet I had left in Villiers Street, — he had 
been out when I delivered it. 

‘ I should have known you were from the north 
country , 5 he said pleasantly. ‘ None of these wretched 
southerners can say their r 5 s properly. And how is my 
friend Father Noel ? 5 

‘I left him well, sir . 5 

‘ And his patron — let me see what is the old gentle- 
man’s name, — Radcliffe, is it not ? 5 

‘Yes, sir, — a kinsman of my Lord Derwentwater’s 
named Sir Nicholas Radcliffe . 5 

f To be sure, I remember now, and indeed have met 
the old gentleman many years ago. How does he fare? 5 

‘He ages fast, sir. I fear we shall soon have his 


152 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


brother inheriting the estate, for old Sir Nicholas can’t 
in nature last much longer. The brother, they say, is 
a very different man and goes in overmuch for plots 
and politics. However, he’ll not be on Lord’s Island, 
for that really belongs to my Lord Derwentwater, and 
he lives wholly at Dilston, and would not, I am sure, 
disturb Mistress Radcliffe and her daughter.’ 

In the pleasure of finding one who knew the Rad- 
cliffes even very slightly, I had wandered on perhaps 
rather rashly, considering how little I knew this gentle- 
man. There was, however, something about him which 
tended to draw one out. He had a frank, pleasant man- 
ner, which inspired confidence, and I felt attracted to 
him. I knew that Mr. Wharncliffe’s surmise as to his 
religion was perfectly true, for Father Noel had himself 
told me that he was a Catholic. But there was, after all, 
nothing so very strange in his being present at court, 
for every English gentleman had from time immemorial 
possessed the right of free entrance at Whitehall, both 
during the King’s dining-hour and at any special diver- 
sion. Probably he came merely out of curiosity. While 
I mused over this, I was startled by a sudden question 
from the stranger: 

tf Then old Sir Nicholas Radcliffe’s granddaughter is 
next in succession to her great-uncle, I suppose?’ 

‘ Yes,’ I replied, ‘ for he has no living child.’ 

‘ I heard a rumour that she was betrothed to a most 
bigoted Protestant. How does Sir Nicholas take that? ’ 

The colour flamed up into my face. 

f He likes it, as most folks do, very ill,’ I answered 
shortly. 

Mr. Calverley lowered his voice. 

‘ What! are you one of us? ’ 

I shook my head. 

c No, but I loathe Henry Brownrigg’s bigotry.’ 

And, as I spoke, all the miserable recollections that 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


153 


had for a time been driven from my mind by the novelty 
of the present scene, came crowding in upon me. I 
thought of Audrey singing ‘ See the chariot at hand 
here of love ’ ; I thought of our talk by the shore and of 
Henry Brownrigg’s interruption; I thought of the words 
the Under- Sheriff had used by Castle Hill, and of the 
expression on his face as he rode away to Keswick after 
the Quaker’s intervention. 

What a hard world it was! And how soon the splen- 
dour of Whitehall, and the charms of music and dancing 
and gay attire, palled upon one! 

c The King, they say, is longing to be with his army in 
Ireland/ said someone standing near me to his com- 
panion. f He is more at home in camp than at court, 
and that’s the honest truth. Did you ever see anything 
more like a fish out of water? ’ 

So that was the meaning of the restless, unhappy 
expression on King William’s face! It was this horrible 
atmosphere of hollow merriment, of meaningless splen- 
dour, that was stifling him. It was the thought of the 
hateful bigotry and party-spirit with which he was 
everywhere confronted that gave him that almost de- 
spairing expression. He longed to be fighting with 
foes that could be fairly faced and frankly dealt with. 
A war of words was intolerable to him; he craved to be 
handling his sword. A strong wave of sympathy with 
the silent and much misunderstood sovereign swept over 
me. After all, was the Quaker right? Surely the fight- 
ing instinct was a noble one. Surely his doctrine of 
passive resistance was only a counsel of perfection, never 
meant at all for the world at large. 

I was startled back to the present by finding Mr. 
Calverley’s curiously attractive eyes fixed intently upon 
me, so that I could not help wondering how long he had 
been reading my face like a book. 

‘ The scene impresses you, Mr. Derwent/ he said with 


154 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


a smile which was wholly kind and free from sarcasm. 
‘I would give something to see it with eyes as young 
as yours.’ 

‘ People always take it for granted that to he young 
means to be happy. It’s a confounded mistake/ I said 
bitterly. 

But before my companion could make any reply I was 
summoned by Sir Wilfrid Lawson, and, following my 
patron, I saw Mr. Calverley no more that night. 


CHAPTER XVI 


‘ Our friend, I think, has a grievance/ said Mr. Cal- 
verley, turning with a smile to Hugo Wharncliffe. ‘ ’Tis 
a pity. ’Twill sour him. He’s over-young for a 
grievance.’ 

Hugo Wharncliffe laughed. 

f Few can pick and choose the time for such things,’ 
he said. ‘And as for that poor fellow Derwent, his 
grievance, I understand, began when he first drew 
breath. They say he was a foundling.’ 

‘ If he never has a worse grievance than that he’ll 
survive,’ said Mr. Calverley, fidgetting with a ravelled 
bit of silver lace on his doublet which offended his eye. 
‘ He has been well educated, and is in the service of a 
kindly gentleman — what more does he wish? No, no, 
depend upon it, there’s a nearer grievance than that to 
make a fellow of twenty-one wear the look he wears. 
There’s a woman in the case, and a hated rival. I know 
something of the rival, and detest him as cordially as I 
fancy our friend does. Possibly I may be able to put 
a spoke in his wheel, and so aid Mr. Derwent. What a 
small world it is, and how we all jostle up against one 
another! I like that young fellow, and must see more 
of him.’ 

With that he passed on to other topics, and before 
very long left Whitehall. 

Hugo Wharncliffe turned then to his friend Mary 
Denham. 

‘ That Mr. Calverley seems much taken with Sir Wil- 


156 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


frid’s secretary. If you have any influence with him it 
would be kind to warn him that Calverley is strongly 
suspected of being a Jacobite/ 

‘ You mean that he had better not get intimate with 
him? ’ asked Mary. 

‘ He ought to be on his guard/ said Hugo Wharn- 
cliffe. e Without being a bigot, one can be prudent as 
to intercourse with those who are under suspicion. Be- 
sides, to tell the truth, Mr. Calverley is a dangerously 
persuasive talker, and from the look of that young fel- 
low, I fancy he is just in the state when a very slight 
touch might send him in the wrong direction/ 

‘ But he will have Mary for his friend/ said little Mrs. 
Wharncliffe with a look of happy confidence in Mistress 
Denham’s influence. ‘ I’ll warrant her to outweigh the 
most persuasive of Jacobites. As for me, I think it is 
quite clear that the poor bQy is in love. Did you not 
see how he coloured up like a girl when Mr. Calverley 
spoke of Mistress Radcliff e ? ’ 

‘ So thinks Mr. Calverley, and he even knows the 
hated rival/ said Hugo Wharncliffe with a smile. c I 
heard him say as much but now. I wish I could make 
the fellow out, but he is deep/ 

‘Who? Mr. Derwent?’ asked Mary Denham. 
c Ho, no, he is as honest and straightforward as the 
day; it was the mysterious Mr. Calverley I meant. One 
can’t help liking him, yet he is not a man I should 
readily trust/ 

Michael Derwent, being some years younger and 
knowing far less of the world, took much longer to dis- 
cover the shortcomings hidden beneath Mr. Calverley’s 
very winning exterior. It chanced that the lawsuit 
which had brought Sir Wilfrid Lawson to town took 
far longer than had been anticipated, and all through 
the winter and the spring they remained in London, 
owing to the endless delays of the lawyers. During 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


*57 


this time Michael saw much of his new friend, some- 
times at his rooms in Yilliers Street and sometimes in 
the chambers of Mr. Winter, the young barrister who 
had been mentioned by Hugo Wharncliffe. Here he often 
met a very pleasant and clever friend of Father Noel’s 
named Anthony Sharp, a middle-aged and highly culti- 
vated scholar, and one of the keenest arguers conceiv- 
able. The two younger men, as a rule, simply listened 
to the discussions between Anthony Sharp and Mr. 
Calverley. They debated numberless questions, but 
more often than not the discussion turned upon some 
point of difference between the Anglican and Roman 
churches. On these occasions it always happened that, 
for the sake of argument, Mr. Calverley would take a 
brief for the English Church, and Anthony Sharp 
would, with wonderful skill, crush his argument be- 
neath the overpowering weight of a merciless logic. 

Now, as Hugo Wharncliffe had shrewdly surmised, 
Michael was just at this time in a state when a very 
slight touch might send him hopelessly wrong. He 
was unhappy; he had good cause for suspecting the 
genuineness of a great deal of the noisy Protestantism 
which he came across, to be nothing more than place- 
hunting under the cloak of religion; and he hated with 
all his heart a certain very aggressive Protestant who 
performed the duties of Under-Sheriff in Cumberland 
with more zeal than charity. 

In old times Father Noel had done his best to make a 
convert of him, but had failed. Now, however, in the 
bitterness of his isolation, in the restlessness which is 
the sure symptom of a sore heart, there was undoubtedly 
something that attracted him in a church which would, 
so to speak, take you in and do for you, save you from 
all personal responsibility, think for you and care for 
you, exacting nothing but filial obedience in return. 
Surely, too, even in that thought of filial obedience 


158 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


there was a charm to one who all his life had been a 
waif. 

One day early in April there arrived in Norfolk Street 
a letter from Father Noel directed to Michael. He read 
it at first with shocked surprise, then with a curious 
stirring of the heart. 

‘ You have received bad news? ? asked Mary Denham, 
who happened to be attending to her pet birds in a 
small aviary which opened out of the study. 

‘ Yes/ he said. ‘ Mrs. Radcliffe has died. She had 
never wholly recovered from an accident last year in a 
coach near Penrith, but the end was very sudden and 
unexpected/ 

c The poor daughter! What will she do? * said Mary. 

‘ I suppose for the present she will remain with her 
grandfather/ said Michael, the tell-tale colour rising to 
his brow. Father Noel tells me that the marriage was 
to have taken place at Easter, but is now of course post- 
poned for a while/ 

‘ Poor girl! how desolate she must be! And she will 
feel doubly alone because in matters of religion she 
thinks differently to her grandfather/ 

‘ Nay/ said Michael. ‘ It is in trouble that we see 
how slight are the differences betwixt us/ 

‘ I like your thought that, as far as may be, we should 
live at unity with each other, but unity is the fruit of 
love and toleration, and has nought to do with uniform- 
ity, which is a matter of outward ordinances and differ- 
ing beliefs, and never can come in this world/ 

‘ Yet in uniformity there would be peace/ said 
Michael wearily. e One grows sick of these strivings as 
to party questions, — these miserable divisions/ 

‘ The peace of a hard and fast uniformity would be 
the peace of slavery — of death/ said Mary Denham. 
‘ There will always be differences of view, for men are 
not turned out in one mould. Surely, as the proverb 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


159 


has it, ’twill ever be “ Many men, many minds.” It is 
not a system , but a spirit that will bring peace; not a 
church where all think alike and use precisely the same 
ceremonies, hut the spirit of love.’ 

He looked into her clear, shining eyes; they seemed 
to him like wells of light, so deep yet so calm were they 
in their brightness. Was it possible that this woman 
had more true insight into the problem that was filling 
his heart than such a ripe scholar, such a trained 
debater, as Anthony Sharp? 

‘ I sometimes think/ he said with apparent irrele- 
vance, £ that it would he far the happiest thing for 
Audrey Kadcliffe if she came to share her grandfather’s 
views.’ 

f How can that he ? ’ said Mary Denham. ‘ If, as we 
think, his views are mistaken, then it cannot be for her 
real happiness.’ 

c It would, at arty rate, save her from a miserable mar- 
riage — a marriage that would he hell on earth.’ 

‘ But to save a great pain would you do wrong? ’ said 
Mary. 

‘I think there are cases where it might he permis- 
sible,’ he replied, as though feeling his way in the dark 
along a strange path. 

‘ But once allow that we may do evil that good may 
come and there is an end of all morality,’ she said; and 
now there was some trace of agitation in her manner. 
Her breath came quickly, her eyes dilated, her colour 
rose, for instinctively she knew that she was fighting 
for a soul, — struggling to resist the devil’s own doctrine. 
When such a time as that comes to man or woman one 
of life’s keenest delights is felt, and just as a soldier 
glories in being called to some difficult task so the spirit 
exults in being used for so glorious an end. 

Yet, though her words were clear and forceful, it was 
not the power of her argument which arrested Michael; 


i6o HOPE THE HERMIT 

it was rather a sort of bewildered gratitude and surprise 
when the realisation broke upon him that she cared 
intensely that he should not swerve from the absolutely 
true, the absolutely right. From the first he had known 
that she was singularly free from that petty craving for 
attention which characterises so many women; she had 
always been to him a perfectly frank and unselfish 
friend. But now he understood how greatly she cared 
for him, how divine a thing this friendship was which, 
in the time of his desolation, had brought fresh interest 
into his life. 

He began to tell her of Anthony Sharp, and of the 
way in which his arguments were always recurring to 
his mind ; how it had seemed to him that there was 
something of devotion in the life of a good Catholic, like 
Winter of the Inner Temple, which was lacking in men 
of their own church. 

‘ But surely/ urged Mary, ‘ devotion is not the special 
characteristic of any one set of men. We have saintly 
men in the English Church, like Bishop Ken and Dean 
Tillotson ; and saintly Quakers, like your friend at 
Keswick and like George Fox/ 

‘ Yes, that's true/ said Michael reflectively. ‘ And 
how they are misunderstood! I was walking along the 
Strand the other night with Mr. Calverley and a Jacob- 
ite friend of his who was calling the Dean of St. Paul's 
every vile name you can think of.' 

‘ Are you wise to be thus mixed up with Jacobites? ' 
said Mary Denham thoughtfully. 

‘ Oh, it was merely by chance that I fell in with this 
gentleman/ said Michael. ‘As for Mr. Calverley, I 
have never heard him talk of politics. I remember 
once before you warned me. But I assure you King 
James is never so much as mentioned in Mr. Winter's 
chambers. He is a very quiet, peaceable man, and has 
good reason to avoid plots or conspiracies of any sort.' 


HOPE THE HERMIT 161 

Mary was silent for a minute. All this might be true 
enough, but she could not rid herself of the impression 
that a strong effort was being made to win Michael 
Derwent over to the Romish Church. It was quite evi- 
dent that unless they had both great desire to gain him 
as an adherent and confidence in the likelihood of his 
conversion, they would not at this particular time have 
dared to risk admitting him to the discussions which he 
had described to her. She knew, moreover, how likely it 
was that in a state of sore-hearted restlessness he would 
catch at anything which seemed to offer a sheltered 
haven, without pausing to consider whether it was a 
safe refuge, or the best and truest to be had. As she 
mused over the danger which threatened him it oc- 
curred to her that in the utterances of a man like the 
much-persecuted George Fox, with his intense spiritual- 
ity, his profound belief in the divine guidance of each 
soul, he might find what he just at this time needed to 
restore his mental balance. 

‘ I should like to see Mr. Fox/ she said. ‘ I wish you 
would some day take me to the meeting-house in Grace- 
church Street. The Quakers are able now to meet 
without any molestation, and Mr. Wharncliffe told me 
strangers were freely admitted/ 

Michael laughed a little. 

‘What! Would you go all the way to the city and 
then perchance sit for a couple of hours and hear no 
single word? They do not speak unless the Spirit 
moves them/ 

‘ I should like to go, all the same/ said Mary. ‘ To- 
morrow is Wednesday, or what they call Fourth day, so 
there is sure to be a meeting. Let us go and see what it 
is like/ 

‘ There is no one like them when one is in trouble/ 
said Michael thoughtfully. ‘ I only wish that Audrey 
may see something of her old kinsfolk at Keswick. But 
11 


162 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


that is scarce likely. Mrs. Brownrigg will be for ever 
fussing round her, and will perhaps carry her off to 
Millbeck Hall/ 

He sighed with a fierce impatience and began to pace 
the room restlessly. 

‘ Tell me about Mistress Audrey/ said Mary Denham. 
‘ Is she young? , 

‘ She is my age; we were reared by the same foster- 
mother, brought up in the same place. There was 
never a time when I did not love her, and she, — she 
would have cared had it not been for my cursed ill-luck. 
For just as I had well-nigh proved my birth we were 
separated, and they betrothed her to a man that I know 
to be nothing but a great hectoring bully, a fellow she 
would never have accepted had it not been that he is 
that sort of prize-ox type of man that women admire/ 

‘ Does her grandfather know Mr. Brownrigg well? ’ 

‘Yes, knows him and detests him, but he has no 
power to interfere, for it was expressly arranged in his 
son’s will that any children born of the marriage should 
be brought up in the English Church. How sick one 
grows of all these religious disputes and party wrang- 
lings! It half inclines one to have done with all strug- 
gling after truth, and hand oneself over, body and soul, 
to some father confessor who would arrange matters 
comfortably. Why think for yourself if you can think 
by proxy? 9 

His tone had been cynical. Hers, as she replied, was 
sweet, yet so eager that the contrast was extraordinary. 

‘But why draw water from a pump in the public 
street, often in past times found defective and danger- 
ous, when in your own dwelling-place you have the 
fountain-head? ’ 


CHAPTER XVII 


They were interrupted just then, but the words 
haunted Michael all that day and indeed for many days 
after. Mary Denham, with her clear insight, had seen 
rightly the peril which at that moment threatened him. 
J ames Calverley, the scheming man of the world ; 
Anthony Sharp, the scholar and theologian; and Winter, 
the saintly devotee, who honestly believed that all who 
were not members of his own church were doomed to 
unending torments, were doing their very utmost to 
win over the young north-countryman to their own 
views. Their tact and judgment were wonderful, and 
probably their efforts would have been successful had 
it not been for another and stronger influence which 
they had not reckoned on. 

Brought up among the hills and dales of Cumber- 
land and inheriting from his mother one of those 
spiritual minds which turn more readily to the mystical 
rather than the sensuous side of things, Michael had 
inevitably been attracted by the inwardness of the 
Quaker teaching. And when he found himself on 
‘ Fourth day 9 sitting among those quiet ‘ Friends * who 
were neither praying nor preaching, but just waiting 
upon God, all the restlessness seemed to be smoothed 
out of him. Rebellion against God’s ordering was a 
thought that died in this atmosphere, and the same 
calmness which was clearly visible in the faces of the 
Quakers, gradually stole over him, also, as he waited 
there in the unbroken silence. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


164 

Presently there stood up a woman who prayed with 
great simplicity and earnestness; the whole meeting 
stood and prayed silently with her. Then they sat 
down again, and all was still once more. 

They had prayed for all who walked in darkness, for 
all seekers after truth, and woven in now with scraps 
and shreds of the arguments that had been of late so 
much pressed upon him, there came the remembrance 
of the quiet room at Hye Hill and of Nathaniel Rad- 
cliffe’s voice saying the words — ‘ Be loyal to Him whose 
love is the unfailing fount of strength/ 

Presently, in the quiet building there came a very 
faint stir as of people roused from an inward to an out- 
ward listening. All eyes were turned upon an old man 
dressed in brown leather who had risen from his place. 
He was tall, and although much crippled by rheuma- 
tism, and aged by the persecutions he had for so many 
years suffered, there was something commanding in his 
presence. His snow-white hair, parted in the middle, 
over a low, broad forehead, hung in scanty locks about 
his shoulders, and the massive, large-featured face was 
relieved from sternness by the piercing sweetness of the 
large dark eyes. 

Michael knew at once that this was George Fox, for 
he had seen the Quaker for a few minutes when deliver- 
ing to him Nathaniel Radcliffe’s packet. He listened 
to the sermon with some curiosity, wondering how this 
man, who had learnt to endure every sort of ill treat- 
ment without retaliating, would speak. He had none of 
the cultivation of Anthony Sharp, and yet in what he 
said, and in his intense earnestness, there was something 
which rivetted the attention of all hearers. He spoke 
on the text ‘ Be still and know that I am God/ begging 
the Friends to keep their minds retired to the Lord, to 
make an effort to do so, to control all over-eagerness in 
telling and hearing news, since in the lower region all 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


165 


news was uncertain and nothing stable; while in the 
higher region — the kingdom of Christ — all things were 
stable and sure, and the news always good and certain, 
because Christ ruled there. Neither should they seek 
after earthly guidance, but rather go straight to Christ 
Himself. All men had the Inner Light, and by it their 
consciences should be enlightened, and they should be 
led both to see their sin and to be healed of it. 

There was only one way in which to gain true inde- 
pendence, true peace, and that was perfect trust in the 
divine guidance. If we turned to earthly guides, we 
should lose that religious reserve which is the rightful 
and wholesome state for the souls of men, and we should 
no longer turn the whole force of our wills to keep the 
mind retired to the Lord. Only by waiting upon God 
could the strength come which should enable each fol- 
lower of Christ to go forth and do the work to which he 
was called; only in silence could w^e gain clear convic- 
tion that a concern was specially laid upon us. 

After the sermon they rose once more to pray, and to 
Michael it all came as a revelation. In George Fox’s 
prayer there was a reverence so profound, an inward 
realisation of God’s presence so wonderful, that it 
seemed as though he drew all hearts with him into his 
own heavenly-mindedness. He used very few words 
and these of a great simplicity, but as though they were 
carefully weighed and chosen like the words of a poet, 
and, above all, with a deep, unfailing regard to absolute 
truth. There were no whining and exaggerated and 
long-winded confessions of sin, no florid and fulsome 
ascriptions of praise, no informing the Almighty of what 
he had or had not done; it was rather the solemn com- 
munion of one who speaks heart to heart with the Being 
he loves and reveres most profoundly. 

There was one other point which struck Michael with 
surprise and admiration. The prayer had been curi- 


1 66 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ously short, as though George Fox took very literally the 
injunction in Ecclesiastes, — ‘ Let thy words be few/ 

When the congregation dispersed it chanced that the 
veteran leader caught sight of Michael, whose face was 
one which it was not easy to forget. He paused and 
spoke to him for a few minutes, giving him no greeting, 
for it was against his principles to say e Good-morning/ 
or to lift his hat, but nevertheless conveying by his 
whole manner and expression a courtesy so far beyond 
any conventional forms that it impressed all who met 
him. His eyes rested tenderly on the young north- 
countryman, for during his life of wandering he had 
come to know countless people and was noted for being 
both a tf discerner of others’ spirits, and very much a 
master of his own/ 

There was a gentleness and sympathy in his manner 
which was all the more striking because of his strength, 
and the severity of which he was capable whenever evil 
had to be fought against. 

f I would fain journey back to the north with thee/ 
he said, ‘ and see my wife at Swarthmoor Hall, but the 
way is over-long for me now. Hast thou found yet the 
marriage register that ’tis thy desire to find ? 9 

‘ No, sir/ said Michael. ‘ I have searched through 
many registers for the year 1667, but have not yet found 
it/ 

‘Hast thou sought yet in the steeple-house of Dunstan?’ 

c Nay, sir, I have not yet been there/ 

‘ When I saw thy face this morning and remembered 
thy story there was brought to my mind how that just 
a year after my release from Scarboro/ (which took 
place the very day before the great fire of London), I 
was walking from the house of Esquire Marsh down 
Fleet Street, and by the door of the steeple house there 
stood a bride and bridegroom just about to step into a 
hackney coach. I know not why the scene lived, in my 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


167 


memory; perchance it was that my own marriage was 
then in contemplation; also there was something un- 
usual in the face of the bride. Perchance there is a 
leading in this. Go and search the register for the 1st 
of seventh month, 1667, and see what entries there are/ 

So they parted, and Mary Denham being much in- 
clined to think that they might find this curious coinci- 
dence the means of discovering the lost clue, suggested 
that they should lose no time, hut go at once to the 
Church of St. Dunstan. 

A most crabbed old verger reluctantly admitted them 
to the vestry, and amid incessant grumbling unlocked 
an oaken chest. It was richly carved with a very quaint 
design of Eve giving the apple to Adam, and beneath 
was the inscription, ‘ It is more blessed to give than to 
receive/ which greatly tickled Mary’s fancy and made 
them both laugh. This enraged the verger, who fully 
believed that they were making game of him. 

‘If you wish to take copies of a marriage register 
you’ll please to do it with care or not at all,’ he said 
severely. ‘ There was a couple of gentlemen in here a 
sen’night since, old enough to have known better, both 
of them, and they must needs get fooling about with the 
inkhorn and spilt it all over the page, — a plague upon 
them! Just look ye there! There’s a fine mess for you 
in a parish register! But, bless you, I made ’em pay for 
it! They didn’t leave this vestry till they’d crossed my 
hand with gold.’ 

He chuckled at the remembrance, and Michael and 
Mary bent over to look at the damaged page. 

‘Why, ’tis the very date, 1st September, 1667!’ ex- 
claimed Mary. 

Michael’s heart seemed to stand still, for there was the 
entry he had been seeking, but so damaged by the ink 
stains, and by an effort to scratch them out, that the 
name of the bridegroom, the very name which he 


i68 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


desired to learn, was illegible. The rest was all perfectly 
clear, and ran as follows : 

‘ On this 1st day of September, 1667, was solemnised a 

marriage between and Lucy Carleton, 

spinster, daughter of Robert Carleton, gent, of Carleton 
Manor, Penrith, at this Church of St. Dunstan, according to 
the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England, by me 
Joseph Saynes, clerk in holy orders, 

in the presence of Christopher Vane, of Raby Castle, 

County Durham, 

and Zachary Stevens, ye parish clerk of St. Dunstan’s.’ 

‘ Clearly the first name must have been “ J ohn,” 5 
said Mary Denham, pointing to the faint indications of 
the first and last letters. ‘ Now, if only it had been 
some out-of-the-way name! But John! why, it is no 
guide at all! * 

‘ When was this confounded mess made ? 5 asked 
Michael, ‘ and who were the gentlemen ? 5 

‘ They give no names, sir/ said the verger, ‘ and’t 
was a sen’night since. One of them, sir, was just about 
your height and build, and might ha 7 been fifty or there- 
about; the other seemed a bit younger, and I reckoned 
’un the more learned of the two . 5 

‘ They took a copy of this particular marriage 
certificate ? 5 

‘ Well, sir, Fm no reader myself, so I can’t say, but I 
know it was on this page . 5 

‘ Who is the witness named in the register, — Zachary 
Stevens ? 5 

‘ That be my father, sir . 5 

‘ Can I see him ? 5 

‘ Bless you, no, sir. Poor old man, he 5 s been a-lyin 5 
out there in the churchyard these fifteen year. Why, 
he 5 d be more’n a hundred if so be that he was alive . 5 

* There seems a fate against me ! 5 said Michael with 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


169 


an impatient sigh, and putting some silver into the ver- 
ger’s hand, he turned to leave the church, feeling ter- 
ribly downhearted. 

One thing is clear/ said Mary Denham, ‘ that was no 
genuine accident with the inkhorn. And there had 
been a deliberate scratching out of your father’s name. 
Had the old verger been able to read he would have 
realised that.’ 

‘ Then it must mean that Sir Christopher Yane has 
communicated with my father,’ said Michael. ‘ He 
promised that he would do so, and my father must still 
be anxious to disown me, and has destroyed the only 
certain legal proof that would have availed me.’ 

‘ And yet, nevertheless,’ said Mary, ‘ I think this will 
prove, as Mr. Fox said, “a leading.” It, at any rate, 
shows you that for the present you can do no more, 
that you must just be still and wait for more light.’ 

They had walked as far as Temple Bar, when their 
talk was interrupted by a sound of street brawling; a 
crowd had gathered about an extremely noisy and half- 
intoxicated gentleman, who was singing at the top of 
his voice one of the familiar Jacobite songs of the day: 

‘ Ken ye how he requited him ? 

Ken ye how he requited him ? 

The dog has into England come, 

And ta’en the crown in spite of him ! 

The rogue he shall not keep it lang ; 

To budge we’ll make him fain again. 

We’ll hang him high upon a tree ; 

King James shall hae his ain again ! ’ 

At this moment the singer was confronted by a mes- 
senger, who showed him a warrant which he was quite 
incapable of reading, and marched him off to the Tower, 
amid the mingled cheers and groans of the crowd. 

‘Why, that is a fellow I have often seen with Mr. 


170 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Calverley — young Sir Arthur Bell. So he, too, is a 
Jacobite! I wonder how long he will be clapt up/ 

Mary was wishing in her heart that he would be more 
careful as to the people he mixed with, but she was too 
wise to press the matter further just then. 

6 Do you know/ said Michael, ‘ what it is to care not 
a straw for anything in the world? To be indifferent 
as to what happens? To find everything one dull, dead 
level? ’ 

‘ Yes/ she said, ‘ I know very well what you mean/ 

‘ Since finding that damaged register I feel that 
there’s no more to be done; my life is over, at least all 
that makes it worth living/ he said with profound dejec- 
tion. ‘ What did you do when you were in like case ? 9 

1 You will find, I think, that other people’s interests 
are put into your life, and you’ll begin to care for them 
instead. By the bye, there is a matter in which you 
could help me very much. You remember how, in the 
winter, we had that appeal from the Bishop of London 
to help the Protestant Yaudois, who had been obliged to 
fly from their homes because of the persecution of the 
Duke of Savoy and the French? There is much need 
of a man who understands accounts and business mat- 
ters, at which, to tell the truth, the clergy are notori- 
ously bad, and the ladies nothing to boast of. Much 
has been given in charity. If you could spare us some 
of your free time you would be doing a very kindly 
deed/ 

Michael could not refuse such a request, though at 
that moment he felt perfectly hard and callous as to the 
sufferings of the Yaudois. But the work in itself did 
him good; moreover, as Mary had known would be the 
case, it brought him into contact with men like Dean 
Tillotson, Hugo Wharncliffe, and Mr. J ohn Evelyn, who 
was staying just then with his family in Soho Square. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


e So far it has been a dead failure/ said James Cal- 
verley, closing the shutters of his sitting-room in Villiers 
Street, and proceeding in a leisurely fashion to get a 
light with flint and steel and kindle the two candles 
which, in very ill-cleaned silver candlesticks, stood on 
the table. £ Before the fellow can be of much service 
he must be won over to the true faith. I thought the 
last debate had nearly converted him, but since Easter 
I have not set eyes on him; he deliberately avoids 
me, and even when asked to come here writes an 
excuse/ 

‘ There is some other influence at work/ said Anthony 
Sharp, ‘ and I think I can tell you what it is. That 
dark-eyed niece of Sir William Denham’s hath intro- 
duced him to the good folk who are bent on relieving 
the heretic Vaudois. I despair of him now, for they’ll 
stuff his ears with gruesome tales of cruelty, and he will 
conclude that we are all friends; for somehow your good 
Protestant always manages to forget that he too can be 
a persecutor when he has a chance. Such an one will 
talk very big about the fires of Smithfield, but will man- 
age to forget the horrible cruelties perpetrated in Ire- 
land, to say nothing of the murder of my Lord Stafford, 
as innocent a man as ever breathed.’ 

‘ You must have another try at him/ said Calver- 
ley, ‘for it is essential that he should somehow be 
converted.’ 

‘ That, my dear friend, is more easily said than done. 


172 


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particularly now that he is hand and glove with Dean 
Tillotson.’ 

‘ Tillotson? Perhaps the worthy Dean will only com- 
fort him as they say he did the Queen, — I mean the 
Dutchman’s wife, — with a sermon on hell/ 

‘ Perhaps/ said Anthony Sharp, with an odd motion 
of the eyebrows. ‘ But if, as they say is the case, Tillot- 
son holds that the torments of hell are not endless, then 
you may he sure he will attract a fellow of Michael Der- 
went’s nature. Some may be won by fear, hut he is not 
of that make. The doctrine of never-ending evil and 
suffering revolts his sense of justice, and you may he 
quite sure that Tillotson will net him.’ 

tf Perhaps he only sees the Dean about this Yaudois 
business.’ 

‘ No; I saw them together a sen’night since, walking 
to and fro in the half-built new St. Paul’s, in deep talk. 
By stepping behind some scatfolding, I contrived to 
catch a sentence now and then as they passed, and heard 
the Dean arguing against an infallible church, and 
speaking outrageous things of Plis Holiness the Pope. 
The church, he argued, was but the congregation of 
faithful men, liable to err, and as yet unfinished and in- 
complete, just like the building in which they walked. 
It was built up, not out of rules and dogmas and cere- 
monies, but of the lives of Christian men and women; 
and there, to do him justice, he said many excellent 
and practical things to young Derwent, for practical 
charity hath a large place in the Dean’s teaching, and 
accounts no doubt for his enormous influence. It’s not 
that the man is a great scholar or a profound theologian 
— his best friends would scarce claim that for him — but 
he certainly is zealous in good works, and, depend upon 
it, his influence over young Derwent will last. I can do 
no more for you.’ 

‘ Then the fellow must remain Sir Wilfrid Lawson’s 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


173 


nameless secretary/ said James Calverley with a shrug 
of the shoulders. ‘ No one can say I haven’t done my 
utmost to save him.’ 

‘ True, and, even as it is, you may find him of use 
some day,’ said Anthony Sharp. ‘ Have you a lemon 
here? I might write a letter to Nevil Payne and tell 
him how matters progress. I almost wonder Enderby 
hasn’t returned from St. Germains by this time; he has 
been longer gone than I thought for.’ 

f Ay, now that the Dutchman has started for Ireland, 
the sooner we set our plan agoing, the better,’ said Cal- 
verley, producing a lemon, which he cut in half, and 
fetching from a drawer a goose-quill and some sheets of 
writing paper. 

Together the two proceeded to concoct a letter which 
was carefully written in lemon- juice, and would only be- 
come legible on the application of heat. They were still 
at work, when a tap at the door made Anthony Sharp 
hastily thrust the quill into his pocket and shuffle the 
papers under the table-cover. Calverley meantime 
crossed the room, and flinging the door open, greeted 
his visitor effusively. 

‘ We were but now talking of you, Mr. Derwent,’ he 
said in that genial, pleasant tone which had from the 
first won Michael’s heart. ‘You are too much of a 
stranger here. Has Sir Wilfrid been keeping you 
chained to the desk that you have not visited me all 
this time ? ’ 

‘ No, sir,’ said Michael, a little sorry to find Anthony 
Sharp present. ‘ But I have been taken up with other 
things, and have come now to bid you farewell, for we 
go back to the north on Monday.’ 

‘What! so soon? I am sorry for that,’ said James 
Calverley, thoughtfully. 

‘There is nothing now to wait for,’ explained Michael. 
‘ Sir Wilfrid’s lawsuit has come to a successful finish, 


174 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and my search after my father’s name is an unsuccessful 
one.’ 

‘ How’s that?’ said Anthony Sharp, scanning the 
young man’s face attentively. 

‘ Why, sir, I have found the marriage in the register 
at St. Dunstan’s, but it had been tampered with, a 
quantity of ink spilt over it, and the name — just the one 
name I need — is quite illegible.’ 

‘ That does indeed seem a cruel stroke of fate,’ said 
Anthony Sharp. ‘ But accidents will happen, and 
maybe you will find other proofs.’ 

‘ It was no accident, sir, but design, if I mistake not,’ 
said Michael. ‘I firmly believe my father himself to 
have moved in the matter.’ 

Calverley had been elaborately slicing up the lemon 
into a tumbler of water; he looked up now with a smile. 

‘ Most men would be willing enough to have such a 
fellow for son and heir. What reason can your father 
have for still disowning you? ’ 

‘ I know not, sir, unless perchance it is a matter of 
money, or unless he is ashamed now, after all these 
years, to face one he did his best to murder.’ 

‘ But now, that you have discovered that you were 
without doubt born in wedlock, why seek further? ’ said 
Calverley. ‘ By your own showing, the meeting could 
scarce be a pleasant one.’ 

‘ Why, sir, I should naturally like to know my own 
name,’ said Michael. ‘ And were it only for the sake 
of pleasing my old grandfather at Carleton Manor, I 
would fain speak a few plain words to the man who so 
grossly neglected my mother.’ 

e It is a thousand pities that you dwell so much on 
what is past,’ said Calverley, dropping the straw through 
which he had been drinking his lemon- water. c You 
want some fresh interest in your life. Why not take up 
politics?’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


175 


Michael laughed and shook his head with an air of 
distaste. 

‘ They interest me very little/ he said, ‘ and from all 
I can gather it is hard for a man to keep his honesty if 
he meddles much with them/ 

‘ In matters of state/ said Anthony Sharp, ‘ it is not 
always possible to observe the same distinction between 
right and wrong that governs the private life of an 
individual/ 

And therewith he started on a long and ingenious 
argument to prove that strict honesty, perfect justice, 
is not always possible or even desirable. But somehow 
through it all Michael seemed to see the face of George 
Fox the Quaker, with those clear, wonderful eyes, pro- 
testing against this devil's doctrine, and showing how 
possible it was even here and now to live in the higher 
region where are to be found whatsoever things are true, 
whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just. 

While Anthony Sharp was still speaking, there came 
a hasty rap at the door, and without waiting for leave 
to enter, in walked a young fellow of about five and 
twenty, dusty and heated and evidently fresh from a 
long journey. He looked flushed and excited, and was 
in excellent spirits — quite irrepressible spirits, indeed — 
for do what they would, neither Calverley nor Anthony 
Sharp could stop his mouth. 

‘ I should have been back long before, but the wind 
was dead against us. I left St. Germains on Saturday/ 
he explained, taking a vacant chair beside Michael and 
facing the other two. 

As the name St. Germains was uttered, Michael felt 
a violent kick under the table from his vis-a-vis, and 
shrewdly surmised that it had been intended for the 
over-talkative new-comer. A light began to dawn upon 
him; clearly his friends were in communication with the 
exiled Queen. 


176 


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‘ So the Oranger has really gone at last/ said the 
stranger. ‘ Hey! what’s the matter? ’ Apparently the 
kick had reached him this time. ‘ Finding you here in 
close confabulation and with a lemon on the table, I 
naturally concluded the coast was clear. Who is this 
gentleman? ’ 

Calverley, who was half-angry, half-amused, gave a 
keen glance at Michael’s face. c This is my friend Mr. 
Derwent/ he said. c Come and change your travelling 
dress in my room, Dick, for in truth you are one mass 
of dust. Then we can sup together and hear your news/ 

‘ Nay, you shall hear that at the Globe Tavern in an 
hour’s ’ 

The rest of the sentence was lost, for Calverley con- 
trived to get his talkative friend out into the adjoining 
room and to close the door with a resounding bang. 

Meanwhile Michael turned over in his mind the mys- 
terious words, ‘ Seeing you with a lemon on the table, I 
thought the coast was clear/ Was the lemon some secret 
symbol ? He looked in perplexity at the untouched 
half on the plate and at the fragments of peel at the 
bottom of the empty tumbler. What could it mean? 
Evidently, too, there was to be a special meeting at the 
Globe Tavern that evening, when the news from St. Ger- 
mains was to be discussed. Well, he had better go be- 
fore he heard any more, and taking up his hat, he rose 
from the table, when just at that moment Calverley 
returned to the room. 

‘ I will bid you good-bye, sir/ he said in a somewhat 
constrained tone. 

‘Not good-bye/ said Calverley with a cordial hand- 
shake; ‘ I shall see you again before you go to the north/ 

‘ I think not/ said Michael, colouring. c Our ways 
evidently lie apart/ 

‘ That talkative fellow has betrayed us/ said Calverley 
with an air of great annoyance, while Anthony Sharp 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


177 


scanned with no small interest Michael’s expressive face; 
he could not help wondering whether his conscience 
would urge him to make public what he could hardly 
help knowing must be a J acobite conspiracy of some sort. 

‘ Sir/ said Michael, ‘ the gentleman certainly talked 
over-freely, but I was here as your guest, and am surely 
in honour bound not to take any heed of matters which 
were not meant for my ears.’ 

Calverley pressed his hand, and a look of relief crossed 
his face; then having sent kindly messages to Father 
Noel, he parted with Michael, and closing the door after 
him, paced the room in silence. 

‘ We can trust implicitly to him/ said Sharp. ‘ He 
will not repeat any of that fellow’s remarks. As long 
as I live I will never employ Enderby again; I believe 
the fellow was drunk.’ 

‘ No, no, but, as usual, careless and excitable. He 
swore he thought he had seen Mr. Derwent, or someone 
much like him, at one of our meetings beneath the 
arches of the Haymarket. After all, it does not matter 
so far as public affairs go, for Michael Derwent is, as 
you say, a man of his word and will reveal nothing. Yet 
I am sorry, too, that he found out the truth. If things 
go well for us it will not signify, though, and, in truth, 
if all Enderby says be true, our plans are most promis- 
ing. Now that the Oranger is off for Ireland and has 
left his wife to rule alone, we shall have an excellent 
chance of restoring his Majesty. However, you will 
hear all presently at the Globe. Here, take the papers 
from under the table-cover, and we will add a postscript 
to our lemon letter.’ 

As they wrote, Enderby cautiously opened the inner 
door and glanced round the room. 

‘Is the gentleman from the north safely departed?’ 
he asked. ‘That’s well! I breathe again! Now, 
gentlemen, let me favour you with the latest lyric! ’ 

12 


178 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


And he trolled out in a clear baritone voice the song: 

* Ye Whigs and ye Tories, repair to Whitehall, 

And there ye shall see majestical Mall ; 

She fills up the throne in the absence of Willy ; 
Never was monarch so chattering and silly.’ 

‘ Do have the goodness to remember that you are in 
England and not in France/ said Calverley impatiently. 
* If you are anxious to he lodged in the Tower I am not/ 

‘What! You don’t think Mr. Derwent will betray 
us?’ said Enderhy in consternation. 

‘No, he can hold his tongue, but you apparently 
can’t/ said Anthony Sharp severely. ‘ Come, gentle- 
men, we may as well repair at once to the Glole, where 
no doubt our friends will be assembling.’ 

And so saying, he carefully folded the illegible letter, 
threw the remains of the lemon into the tumbler, and 
prepared to go out. 


CHAPTEE XIX 


Michael’s thoughts were far from pleasant as he 
quitted Yilliers Street. To know that a Jacobite con- 
spiracy was on foot was nothing new, for it had long 
been the news of the town that Queen Mary of Modena 
was in communication with many zealous adherents of 
King James both in England and Scotland. Only a 
short time ago some highly important despatches had 
been sent over by two men named Fuller and Crone. 
Fuller had, however, proved false to his trust; on reach- 
ing London he turned Government spy and carried his 
communications straight to King William, who was at 
his new palace at Kensington. Crone delivered his 
letters to the plotters, but afterwards, on Fuller’s evi- 
dence, was arrested and thrown into Newgate, where, 
however, he steadily refused to reveal what he knew of 
the plot. He was now lying, as Michael well knew, 
under sentence of death, but it was thought that he 
would probably be respited and induced to tell the whole 
truth. Meantime, King William, unable to delay any 
longer his departure for Ireland, where his presence was 
absolutely necessary, had been forced to leave the Queen 
to rule the distracted country as best she could. He 
had set out for the war on the very day that Crone was 
brought up for trial, and those who saw his unmoved, 
mask-like face little guessed how deeply he felt leaving 
the Queen in such a perilous time. Only to his friend 
Lord Portland, and to Burnet — whom he detested but 


i8o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


knew to be faithful — did he reveal the distress he was 
enduring. 

But never perhaps has there been so striking an in- 
stance of the way in which a woman can rise to the 
occasion as is shown by the manner in which Queen 
Mary ruled in England during one of the most dan- 
gerous and trying years the country has ever passed 
through. 

The Jacobite songs might describe her as chattering 
and silly, might laugh at her pastime of knotting 
fringes, but those who know the inner history of those 
difficult times cannot but admire the wonderful ability 
and judgment which she showed. 

On the whole, as he thought over the unsettled state 
of the country and remembered with a sense of discom- 
fort how much he had been in Mr. Calverley’s company, 
Michael felt glad that they were soon to return to Cum- 
berland, and as he walked along the crowded and evil- 
smelling streets a longing came over him for the fresh 
mountain-air of his native place. Avoiding a noisy 
party of ‘ Scourers/ who were making merry over the 
persecution of a poor old watchman, he turned down 
Norfolk Street, and hearing sounds of music in the 
withdrawing-room, went upstairs at once. The room 
was lighted only by two wax candles, which stood on the 
spinet at the far end. Mary Denham was playing 
Whitelocke’s coranto, and Sir William slept peacefully, 
with ‘ The Ornithology of Francis Willoughby, Esq., 
illustrated by most elegant figures nearly resembling 
the live birds/ open before him. 

‘ That is an old tune, that my mother used to play/ 
said Mary, glancing up at him as he appeared. I always 
have to play it when I stay with my uncle Sir Joscelyn 
Heyworth at Katterham/ 

‘You are going there soon, are you not? ? 

‘Yes, I go next week. One begins to long for the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 181 

country. You, too, will be glad to leave London and 
get back to the north/ 

‘ For some things/ he replied, his face clouding a 
little. ‘ If one could just get a good blow on the fells 
and come back! But the thought of settling down there 
for the rest of one’s life does not, I must own, attract 
me.’ 

‘You look forward too far,’ said Mary. tf A good 
many changes are sure to come before your life is ended. 
When I think of all we have passed through in the last 
eight years merely in matters of state, it seems to me 
that we certainly can’t complain of monotony. There 
were those sad years at the end of King Charles’ reign, 
with all their anxiety, and then the tyranny of King 
James, and Monmouth’s rebellion, and the frightful 
cruelties of Judge Jeffreys in the west; then the trial 
of the seven bishops, and the invitation to the present 
King, and the excitement of the Revolution. We cer- 
tainly live in stirring days. I wonder what will happen 
to that poor young J acobite, Crone.’ 

‘ The general opinion is that he will not be able to 
face death when it actually comes, and will reveal the 
truth at the last moment,’ said Michael. 

‘ However wrong or mistaken he may be, I cannot 
help but pity him,’ said Mary. ‘ To lie all these weeks 
in Newgate with death staring him in the face is hard 
on one so young. This afternoon Lady Temple was 
here; she is devoted to the Queen, and has been much 
with her since King William’s departure. She told me 
that Lord Monmouth constantly brings to her Majesty 
in cabinet council most mysterious letters, which he 
declares are intercepted by his friend Major Wildman. 
They are all written in lemon- juice.’ 

. ‘In lemon-juice?’ said Michael, starting. 

‘ Yes, the writing only becomes visible when exposed 
to heat. But the extraordinary thing is that they con- 


182 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


tain abstracts of everything done in the cabinet council, 
of which Lord Monmouth, you know, is a member/ 

‘To whom are they directed? ’ asked Michael. 

‘ To M. Contenay at Amsterdam. Her Majesty be- 
gins to think that perhaps Lord Monmouth himself con- 
trives them, and wishes to raise doubts and stir up strife 
in the Queen’s council. It must be a terrible time for 
her; she does not know whom to trust, and everything 
she does seems to give offence, while all the time Lady 
Temple says she is breaking her heart over the enforced 
absence from her husband, and is miserably anxious lest 
her father should be killed or wounded in Ireland/ 

‘ I think her Majesty need hardly be anxious on that 
last point/ said Michael with a smile. ‘ From all one 
hears, the late King is very unlike his father in personal 
courage, and will take good care of his own skin, 
though he will let the poor Irish folk die by the thou- 
sand in his cause/ 

‘ She can hardly help being anxious about her own 
father when her husband is fighting against him. It 
must be the same terrible struggle that my uncle Hey- 
worth had to face in the civil war, that sad time of 
divided households. People say the Queen is heartless 
because when, at the people’s invitation, she came to 
the rescue of England, she put on a bright face as she 
entered Whitehall and affected a gaiety she was far from 
feeling. But Lady Temple is her close friend, and she 
knows that her Majesty has implored King William to 
take every care of her father’s person, and to let all 
people know that he specially desired no hurt should 
happen to him/ 

‘ ’Tis well she has such a sweet-natured friend as Lady 
Temple. You have taught me in these months, Mistress 
Denham, that, as the old sage wrote long ago, “ A faith- 
ful friend is a strong defence.” ’ 

She coloured with pleasure at his words. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


183 


‘ I have good reason to believe in friendship/ she said 
as she played on dreamily npon the spinet. ‘ As onr old 
Scotch servant says, I have been well “friended” al- 
ways. And don’t yon forget yonr promise to write to 
me as soon as yon find those moths which Uncle Den- 
ham thinks yon may discover on the wooded shores of 
Derwentwater. It will be a rare delight to him if you 
can send him some, and, moreover, I shall want to know 
how yon fare/ 

Just then Sir William woke np, and they fell to talk- 
ing over the moths in question. He said that his friend 
the late Mr. Willoughby had died before studying them 
as he had wished, and now he and Dr. Martin Lister, 
whose study of spiders was so well known, desired to 
collect specimens. Mary felt no small satisfaction as 
she perceived that her efforts had not been altogether 
in vain, and that she had really roused the young north- 
countryman from his private troubles into taking in- 
terest again in other things. 


CHAPTER XX 


‘ My dear Audrey, if you would but realise that delays 
are dangerous! ’ said Mrs. Brownrigg with a touch of 
impatience in her voice. ‘ I have tried to hint as much 
to you times without number, but it seems useless/ 

The good lady was not unlike her son; she was large 
and solid, with very handsome features and a slightly 
dictatorial tone. And now, as she sat in the parlour 
at Millbeck Hall watching the pale, downcast face of 
her future daughter-in-law, she felt not a little irri- 
tated. 

For Audrey, in her deep mourning, with all the colour 
flown from her sweet face, and with dark shadows under 
her eyes, looked very little like a girl who was on the 
eve of a happy marriage. 

‘ Indeed, I am sorry for the delay, ma’am/ she said 
wistfully, ‘ but I should make but a sad wife yet awhile, 
and should bring little happiness to Henry/ 

‘ Of that, my dear, you are no fit judge/ said Mrs. 
Brownrigg. f To my mind you would show greater 
respect to your mother’s memory by wedding the man 
she desired you to wed, than in letting yourself pine 
like this in a grief that is of no avail.’ 

Audrey kept her eyes upon her embroidery, though 
they were so full of tears that she could not see the 
stitches. 

‘I promised Henry this morning that our marriage 
should be in August, as he wishes/ she said. ‘ It could 
not be before that, for now that Father Noel has 


HOPE THE HERMIT 185 

sprained his knee and is invalided, I could not leave 
my grandfather/ 

‘ I believe that provoking Mr. Noel hurt himself on 
purpose to postpone the wedding again. You can’t 
deny, Audrey, that both he and your grandfather dislike 
your wedding a Protestant.’ 

Audrey sighed. ‘ They do not understand Henry,’ 
she said. c And sometimes I think he does not under- 
stand them.’ Then seeing Mrs. Brownrigg draw herself 
up with an air of offence, she hastened to add, ‘ Maybe 
when we are really married, all things will go more 
smoothly. Is that five o’clock striking? Then the 
horses will be coming to the door, and I must not keep 
them waiting. My two invalids at home will be looking 
for me.’ 

Putting on her hat and riding gloves, she went with 
her hostess to the great front door, and stood in the 
sunny little garden waiting for her groom, listening half 
dreamily to Mrs. Brownrigg’s parting exhortations, 
while her eyes rested on the quaint old Latin motto 
carved above the name of the former owner, Nicholas 
Williamson, upon the lintel: 

‘ Quorsum? Vivere mori. Mori viv ere.’ 

c Whither? To live (is) to die. To die (is) to live.’ 

Audrey had reached that stage of sorrow when a 
supreme indifference to everything in the world falls 
with numbing influence on the heart. She looked back 
at Millbeck Hall without the least quickening of the 
pulses as she remembered that in a short time it was to 
become her home, and there was much excuse for the 
impatient and worried look on Mrs. Brownrigg’s face as 
she watched her future daughter-in-law out of sight. 

‘ Now, what in the world possesses that girl I would 
give much to understand! ’ she ejaculated, returning to 
her work in the parlour in no very good humour. 
‘ From love to my son I urge on the marriage, but ’tis 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


1 86 

signing my own death warrant, for to be shut np day 
after day in the same honse with a chit who has no more 
spirit left in her than a broody hen, will make my life 
a burden/ 

The good lady, however, would have endured much 
for her son, and her hard face softened when later she 
heard his step without. He came in looking flushed 
and eager, and asked at once for Audrey. 

‘Did you not meet her? She rode home with the 
groom hut a little while ago/ said Mrs. Brownrigg. 
‘ She declared she must go back to her two invalids, and 
truly the way in which she pampers that disguised priest 
is enough to sicken any good Protestant. My belief is 
that his injured knee is nothing but a pretext for 
hindering the wedding/ 

‘ I wish I had not missed her/ said Henry with an air 
of vexation. ‘ But I was coming from the other direc- 
tion and never thought she would leave yet awhile/ 

‘ What is the news? And where have you been? , 
asked his mother. 

‘ I have been at Wythop Hall with the Fletchers, and 
there is great news afoot. A Jacobite plot has been 
discovered, and the Queen and the privy council at 
Whitehall have ordered the arrest of my Lord Clarendon 
and many others. It seems, moreover, that John Kad- 
clifle, Sir Nicholas’ younger brother and heir, has been 
one of this accursed gang, and there is a warrant out 
against him. He has been plotting and carrying on 
correspondence with St. Germains these many months 
in London, but went always under an assumed name. 
At last he w r as recognised and his arrest was ordered. 
Somehow he contrived, however, to escape from London, 
and it is thought that he will possibly seek shelter with 
his kinsfolk in the north/ 

Mrs. Brownrigg was an astute lady, and she sat up 
now with eager eyes. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


187 


‘ It will rest with you, of course, will he your positive 
duty, to search for this traitor/ she said. 

‘ Certainly/ replied her son. ‘ And he will be a clever 
man if he contrives to escape me. Not only do I hate 
all these vile plotters, hut it would he to my own interest 
to rid Audrey of this dastardly great-uncle. She would 
then inherit her grandfather’s estate of Goldrill near 
Ulleswater.’ 

e To be sure/ said Mrs. Brownrigg, rubbing her hands 
gently together. ‘ I should like to see you the master 
of Goldrill. ’Tis a beautiful place, and I remember 
once dining there in the old times when Mrs. John 
Radcliffe was a bride. ’Tis strange that Sir Nicholas 
lets such a place stand empty and lives in that half- 
ruined old house on Lord’s Island, which he only 
dreams to be his own. A most unpractical, visionary 
old man. I have no patience with him.’ 

‘ Visionary, yes, hut easy enough to manage/ said 
Henry Brownrigg complacently. ‘ A generous and 
foolish old man, too. He will he certain to shelter this 
ne’er-do-weel brother of his.’ 

‘But how will you find out?’ asked Mrs. Brownrigg. 

‘Why, easily enough, mother/ said Henry with a 
laugh. ‘ The little god Cupid will come to my help, 
and I shall draw all the information I need from 
Audrey.’ 

‘ To he sure/ said his mother. ‘ A girl will do any- 
thing for love, and I don’t for a moment doubt her 
love to you, Henry. It is about the only thing left to 
her, poor lassie; she’s lost her looks and her spirits and 
all her small talk. But her love to you survives. You 
were hut a foolish fellow ever to be jealous of Michael 
Derwent.’ 

‘ That bete noire of mine is come on the scene once 
more. Sir Wilfrid is returned from London, and Der- 
went is to be on St. Herbert’s Isle this summer, looking 


i88 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


after the work on the new house there, and tutoring the 
children, for it seems that some of the household at Isel 
Hall are down with the small-pox/ 

‘ Audrey had heard as much, hut she clearly takes no 
interest in her old playmate. Hot a muscle of her face 
moved when I spoke of him/ 

‘ Yes, I don’t think I need he jealous,’ said Henry. 
‘ To-morrow I will go and see how the land lies with 
regard to the great-uncle. As you say, a girl will not 
withhold information from her lover.’ 

The next day Henry Brownrigg lost no time in visit- 
ing Lord’s Island, and Audrey gave him so eager and 
loving a welcome that his heart heat high with hope. 
They sat together in a little arbour in the shady pleas- 
ance, and after heating about the hush for some little 
time, he made a direct attack on the matter that was 
filling his thoughts. 

‘You have no visitors here?’ he said, watching her 
keenly as he put the question. 

‘Ho,’ she replied, ‘none whatever. They tell me 
Michael has returned from London, hut he has not come 
to see us/ 

‘ I wonder at that,’ said Henry. 

‘ I am glad he has not come,’ she said wearily. ‘ I 
dread seeing people since my mother died. I want no 
one but you/ 

He raised her hand to his lips. Should he tell her of 
the discovered plot? On the whole, he thought not. 

‘My dearest heart!’ he said tenderly. ‘I come to 
you whenever I can, and indeed I need you now more 
than ever, for we live in troubled times and my work 
just now is arduous. You little know how it cheers 
and helps me to throw all public cares aside and come 
here to this quiet place and find you waiting for me. 
You will not mind if I come even more often than I 
have done hitherto ? ’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


189 

‘ Mind? ’ she said with a little shy caress. ‘ Why, no, 
Henry, yonr coming is the one thing that cures my 
heartache.’ 

‘I shall be much in Keswick during the next few 
weeks,’ he said, ‘ and will make a point of coming when- 
ever I can. And do not forget, dear heart, that at 
Lammas-tide you will be my bride, and that next Sun- 
day our banns are to he read in Crosthwaite Church. 
You have told your grandfather that? ’ 

Yes, I told him last night, and he consents, though 
liking but ill to lose me,’ said Audrey. 

‘Well, well, that is but natural,’ said her lover. ‘And, 
after all, Millbeck Hall is no very great distance; you 
will often see him.’ 

He left the island in good spirits, feeling that there 
would be no difficulty in learning the whole truth from 
his betrothed should John Radcliffe seek shelter in the 
house. 

Audrey watched him row back in the direction of 
Keswick, feeling happier than she had done for some 
‘time. There was something in Henry Brownrigg’s 
strength which comforted her ; and to-day she had 
noticed in his manner a warmth and eagerness that 
touched her sad heart, rousing it from its grief, and 
kindling once more a gleam of hope in the life that lay 
before her. After all, was she not young? It was im- 
possible to dwell for ever in the happiness that was past. 
Perhaps joy awaited her in that wedded home at Mill- 
beck; perhaps Mrs. Brownrigg was, after all, right, and 
she would most truly show her love to her mother by 
making the very utmost of such happiness as might fall 
to her share. 

There was much to brighten her life in the prospect 
of Henry’s love and protection; then, too, God might 
send her the blessed gift of children. In many ways, 
as she sat there dreaming over the possibilities of the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


1 90 

future, her outlook grew wider and more sunshiny, till 
something of its former youth and beauty stole back to 
her face, and the old gardener, as he approached her, 
was quick to note the change. 

‘ Bless her! ’ he said to himself. ‘ She’s like her ain- 
sel’ once more. Good-mornin’, mistress. Hae ye time 
to he cuttin’ the lavender? It he fine and dry now, and 
by night I’m thinkin’ we shall hae rain.’ 

‘ Why, to be sure, Jock. I am but idling here in the 
arbour,’ said Audrey with a smile; and going to the 
house, she returned in a snowy apron, carrying a large 
flat basket and a pair of scissors to clip the lavender. 
J ock heard her singing softly as she set about her work, 
and had a very shrewd suspicion of the direction in 
which her thoughts had turned ; for, as the fragrant, 
mauve spikes were laid in the basket, Audrey involun- 
tarily began to picture her fine new linen and the great 
chest where her bridal clothes were stored. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Late on the evening of this same 4th July the rain 
which old Jock, the gardener, had foretold came down 
in good earnest, wetting to the skin a wayfarer who, in 
the fading light, was making his way down the Stake 
Pass towards Borrowdale. From the way in which he 
walked it was evident that he knew the country, nor 
did he greatly care for the had weather, hut strode on 
at a brisk pace, a solitary figure in the grey landscape. 
He had journeyed far that day and was footsore and 
tired, so that a sigh of relief escaped him as he came 
down into the valley, tramped through the little sleep- 
ing village of Rosthwaite, where folks went early to bed, 
and made his way through Borrowdale to the margin of 
Derwentwater. Here he paused and looked across to 
St. Herbert's Isle, his eye being attracted by the light 
burning in Michael's room. 

‘ So Sir Wilfrid is apparently at his summer house! 
Worse luck to the old Protestant! Unless he is safely 
at Isel we shall have him playing the spy. Well, at any 
rate there is a light on Lord's Island, too, so the good 
folks there have not gone to roost. The question is, 
How am I to reach them without disturbing the 
servants ? ' 

Musing over his plans, he strode on through the woods 
which fringed the shore, pausing now and then to glance 
at. some remembered landmark, and finally stealing down 
towards Stable Hills Farm, close to which was one of 
the Radcliffe boathouses. 


192 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


e No dogs about; that is well/ he muttered to himself 
as he unlatched the door, and soon with deft hands he 
had loosed a boat and was rowing across the narrow strip 
of water which lay between the shore and the chief 
landing-stage on the island. It was now quite dusk, 
and having safely moored his boat, he crept noiselessly 
round the ruined chapel until he reached the window of 
the room in which he had seen a light burning as he 
stood near Lowdore. The shutters were still unclosed; 
he glanced into the deserted hall, and saw that the 
remains of supper were still upon the table. 

‘ They must have gone to the study/ he reflected. 
c Fll not risk going round by the garden and the 
kitchen premises; better creep round the chapel and 
the brew-house; one is likely to fall foul of the 
servants/ 

Swiftly crossing the open courtyard in front of the 
mansion, he made his way to the window of the study, 
and here good fortune attended him, for the window 
was open, and beside it, drinking in the cool night air, 
sat Father Noel, a self-controlled person with iron 
nerves, who was not in the least likely to be startled 
by his sudden appearance. 

'Any shelter, good Father, for a hunted stag?’ he 
asked in a low but cheery voice. 

Father Noel involuntarily crossed himself and turned 
a shade paler; then, with a warning gesture to the fugi- 
tive, he turned to prepare old Sir Nicholas, who dozed 
in his armchair. 

' My child/ he said as Audrey glanced up at him with 
startled eyes, 'your great-uncle Mr. John Radcliffe 
stands without asking for shelter. We must ask your 
grandfather what is to be done/ 

Audrey threw down her knitting and knelt beside the 
old man’s chair, gently rousing him. 

‘ Grandfather/ she said quietly, ' there is a great sur- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


193 


prise for you. My uncle Radcliffe has come. He needs 
shelter/ 

‘ John ! 5 said the old man, waking all in a tremble; 
‘John here and needing shelter? ’ 

‘ Ay/ said a voice behind them, and glancing round, 
they saw the heir to the estate swing himself lightly in 
by the open window with the ease and agility of a much 
younger man. 

‘ I am here, good friends, but have only escaped the 
Tower by the skin of my teeth. How are you, brother? ’ 
He greeted the old knight with light-hearted good- 
nature, speaking as though they had but parted a few 
days ago. ‘ My pretty niece, you will scarce remember 
me; but an you love me, go close the window and the 
shutters; then I shall breathe more freely. We must 
keep my coming dark, Father Noel, or I shall maybe 
land you all in trouble/ 

‘What has happened? 9 said the old priest anxiously. 
‘ We have heard naught up here, save that the French 
fleet is in the Channel. Is that true? ’ 

‘Ay, indeed it is, and by this time, like enough, it 
may have beaten the English fleet, for my Lord Tor- 
rington hath one of those timid natures that shrink 
from responsibility of any sort. The Queen and the 
council, threatened by a French invasion and by a 
Jacobite insurrection, grew desperate. Then, unluckily, 
that poor young fellow Crone could hold out no longer/ 

‘ They say he had a fair enough trial/ said old Sir 
Nicholas. ‘We must at least allow that the present 
government do not treat enemies after the fashion of 
former times, when my Lord Jeffreys condemned men. 
But what of young Crone? Is he dead? 9 

e No, poor beggar, at last he broke down and couldn’t 
face the scaffold. They offered him a free pardon if' 
only he would confess all he knew, and so at Whitehall 
he revealed many matters which showed the Queen the 
13 


194 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


strength of the Jacobite cause. My Lord Clarendon is 
in the Tower, and I should he keeping him company had 
I not, by the aid of my worthy friend Father Sharp, 
contrived to escape before the warrant had been deliv- 
ered. What do you say? Can I shelter for a time in 
the priests* hole ? * 

‘ Yes, you would be safe enough there/ said Sir 
Nicholas, ‘ as Audrey remembers, from her game of hide 
and seek, *tis little likely to he found. We had old 
Father Francis there for weeks/ 

‘What is the matter, my child?* said Father Noel, 
his keen eyes at once observing the look of doubt and 
trouble that flashed into Audrey’s face. 

‘ Could it he possible,* she said, ‘ that Henry already 
knows my uncle to he a fugitive? * 

‘ Why, doubtless the authorities at Keswick know it,* 
said J ohn Kadcliff e easily. ‘ I have been some time 
getting here, and ill news, as we all know, flies apace. 
You mean that this Under- Sheriff lover of yours will 
come searching the house?* 

‘ He was here this morning,* said Audrey, colouring 
crimson, ‘ and I remember that he asked if we had any 
visitors, and spoke of having to he much in Keswick 
during the next few weeks, and that he hoped often to 
come and see me.* 

Her eyes filled with tears, for a terrible doubt of 
Henry’s motive for the first time came into her mind. 
Was he just professing special tenderness to her to fur- 
ther his own ends? Did he mean to use her as his tool? 
Use her against her own kith and kin? 

The thought h^rtured her, nor was there any comfort 
in the long-embarrassed silence which reigned in the 
room. It was quite evident that even gentle old Sir 
Nicholas, with all his reluctance to think evil of his 
neighbours, believed that her lover had been seeking 
for information that morning as to the escaped Jacobite. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


195 


Now, Audrey, though gentle and sweet by nature, 
was quite capable of being roused by anything which 
savoured of meanness, and the notion of being trapped 
into betraying those who were of her own blood made 
her heart stir indignantly. 

‘ Oh/ she cried, ‘ I don’t think you will be safe here! 
I believe Henry will come again with his question as to 
visitors, and how am I truthfully to answer him if you 
are in the priests’ hole? — actually in the house?’ 

‘ My child, a lie in such a case would be quite per- 
missible,’ said Father Noel. ‘You would be merely 
telling such a lie as Michal did to save David from her 
father’s fury.’ 

‘ I can’t tell a lie to my lover,’ said Audrey. 

‘ The maid is right,’ said John Radcliife. ‘ Never 
fear, Audrey; no one has a right to expect that of you. 
Better give up your old uncle, my dear.’ He stooped and 
kissed her with the frank kindliness of look that had 
won him so many hearts; and as Audrey felt him pat 
her gently on the shoulder, as though she had still been 
a child, her heart went out to this unknown kinsman, 
and she felt the impossibility of betraying him. 

‘ I could never give you up, uncle, ’*she said warmly. 
‘ Only if we could contrive to shelter you elsewhere, I 
think Henry’s suspicions would be more easy to allay. 
Even if I tried to lie, I should do it badly, and he would 
at once guess that something was amiss.’ 

‘ There is something in that,’ said Father Noel. ‘ A 
lover of truth for its own sake ever bungles the matter 
and lies shamefacedly. Ha! there’s knocking at the 
great door. I fear your coming to the island has been 
observed.’ 

For a moment they all seemed stupefied, for a visitor 
at that late hour was unheard of, and to bestow John 
Radcliffe in the priests’ hole was now out of the ques- 
tion. Audrey was the most quick-witted, and with a 


196 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


woman’s swift intuition saw in a flash the sole chance 
of escape. 

‘ Quick, uncle/ she said, ‘ come with me to my room 
and I will holt the door. Henry would never dream of 
disturbing me.’ 

‘You are willing to take the risk?’ said John Rad- 
cliffe, hesitating for a moment. 

But she caught his arm impatiently and drew him to 
the door. ‘ Quick, quick ! or we shall not reach the 
stairs before the servants come,’ she urged ; and J ohn 
Radcliffe, without another word, obeyed, following her 
swiftly up the broad, shallow steps, along a gallery, 
and into a room dimly visible by a rushlight which 
burnt on the table near the bed. She closed and bolted 
the door behind them, then breathlessly motioned him 
towards the large, roomy cupboard where her dresses 
hung. 

‘ I will let you out when they tell us that all is safe 
below,’ she said, locking the door upon him, and then 
pausing for a minute to listen intently to what was 
passing. 

She heard steps in the entrance hall, then the voice 
of old Duncan, the butler. 

‘ Sir Nicholas is alone, sir,’ he said. ‘ If any visitor 
had come into the house to-day, why, I should have 
known it.’ 

‘ Well, let me speak a few words with Sir Nicholas/ 
replied a clear, penetrating voice, and Audrey shivered, 
for she knew that it was, as they had feared, Henry 
himself. 

She stole across the room to the bed, and creeping 
into it with her clothes on, drew up the heavy, knitted 
coverlet, shuddering as though it had been a cold win- 
ter’s night instead of a sultry evening in July. 

It seemed to her that without a moment’s warning 
she had been plunged into a sea of difficulties and perils, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


197 


and her heart ached as she thought how soon the bright- 
ness of the morning had passed away. But though 
plainly seeing that she had a difficult part to play, there 
was no wavering about her. In an instant she had 
thrown in her lot with those of her own blood. It was 
nothing to her that she shared neither their religious 
nor their political views; on such details she never even 
bestowed a thought in this crisis. She only knew that 
her lover was seeking her uncle’s life and liberty, and 
all her sympathies went to the man who had begged for 
help and shelter. For to fly to the rescue of the op- 
pressed is the natural instinct of every true woman, the 
secret of that motherliness which enters into every 
relation of life, perfecting her attitude not only to- 
wards children, but towards husband, kinsman, and 
friend. 

Meanwhile Henry Brownrigg had entered the study, 
looking sharply round with expectant eyes and feeling 
somewhat nonplussed by the calm of the atmosphere. 
Sir Nicholas leant back in his armchair, with his eyes 
shielded by one of his long, slender hands, and as the 
visitor was announced he rose with an air of mild sur- 
prise and gave him a quiet, courtly greeting. Beside 
the window sat Father Noel, book in hand. 

‘ You’ll excuse my rising, Mr. Brownrigg; but, as very 
likely you have heard, I have crippled my knee,’ he said 
pleasantly. ‘ I trust nothing is wrong with Mrs. 
Brownrigg? ’ 

‘I do not come from Millbeck, but from Keswick,’ 
said Henry Brownrigg. ‘A very disagreeable errand 
has been entrusted to me, Sir Nicholas, and I only wish 
I were not called by my duty to carry it out. The fact 
is a warrant is out for the arrest of your brother, Mr. 
John Badcliffe.’ 

Father Noel made a startled ejaculation. 

‘ Upon what charge, sir? ’ he inquired. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


198 

‘ On a charge of high treason/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
trying in vain to read the priest’s face. 

‘ Foolish fellow! ’ said Father Noel. ‘ He is one of 
those who cannot keep from dabbling in politics. ’Tis 
a pity he has not followed the example of his brother 
and held aloof altogether from public affairs; but he 
has been much abroad, and that is an ill training for an 
Englishman: they lose all genuine patriotism if they 
are much in France/ 

‘ There is truth in that/ said Sir Nicholas. e But I 
think, Mr. Brownrigg, you know me well enough to be 
aware that I have no sympathy with any of the hare- 
brained schemes for calling the French to invade our 
shores in the hope of restoring King James. Rather 
than see a French invasion I would welcome again the 
days of Cromwell and the Commonwealth.’ 

‘ Sir, I am quite well aware that you are a true- 
hearted English gentleman/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
touched in spite of himself by the unmistakable sin- 
cerity of the old man’s tone. e But to-night we have 
had terrible news; the English fleet has been disgrace- 
fully beaten by the French off Beachy Head, and my 
Lord Torrington has been forced to fly along the coast 
of Kent and to take refuge in the Thames.’ 

‘ Great Heavens! ’ said Sir Nicholas, his eyes kindling. 
‘ This is terrible news, indeed! Mr. Brownrigg, on 
many matters we disagree, but I call God to witness that 
in this matter of the French invasion we are entirely of 
the same mind.’ 

He held out his hand, and Henry Brownrigg pressed 
it in his, not without genuine admiration of the old 
Catholic gentleman, whose patriotism was plainly vis- 
ible. 

‘It seems ungracious/ he said, * to return to the object 
of my visit, but duty must be done. It will be my duty 
to arrest your brother, however little I like the task, and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


igg 


it seems only too likely that, haying, as we know, fled 
from London, he should take refuge here. 5 

‘ He would be very slow to imperil Sir Nicholas/ said 
Father Noel. ‘ In old days I knew him well, and there 
is much kindly generosity in his nature. Moreover, to 
come here would be a foolish and risky thing to do, and 
Mr. J ohn Radcliffe is a shrewd man/ 

‘ I will be open with you/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
‘ and will tell you just how things stand. We know 
that some days ago Mr. J ohn Radcliffe left London, and 
came down to York by coach. At York he disappeared; 
and in spite of many efforts we have not yet traced him. 
This evening, however, I chanced to observe a boat 
crossing at an unusually late hour to the island, and on 
inquiry learnt from a travelling pedlar who was passing 
with his pack-horse that he had seen a gentleman in 
the path between Rosth waite and Grange. Now, it is of 
course quite possible that I may be mistaken, but taken 

in connection with the boat which I myself noticed 

‘ That, if you will pardon the interruption, is a matter 
of frequent occurrence/ said the priest; ‘ on these long 
summer evenings the servants often cross from the farm 
late in the evening/ 

‘ Still I conceive it my duty/ said Henry Brownrigg 
haughtily, ‘to make a search of the house, though 
I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Sir 
Nicholas/ 

‘ Not in the least/ said the old knight with a courtly 
bow; ‘ you are perfectly at liberty, sir, to make whatever 
search you deem necessary/ 

The Under-Sheriff was puzzled by this ready acqui- 
escence. 

‘ They will show me round the place/ he reflected, 
‘but all the while they may have got the fellow stowed 
away in some secret room/ 

‘ It is hardly to be imagined. Sir Nicholas/ he said, 


200 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘that an old mansion like this was built without its 
secret hiding-place; it would save us all a world of 
trouble if you would kindly tell me where your secret 
room is.’ 

'With pleasure/ said the old knight. 'It is known 
to few; hut old Duncan will open it for you if I give him 
instructions/ 

Then summoning the old butler, he said: 

' Take Mr. Brownrigg round the house; he is in search 
of a gentleman against whom a warrant has been issued. 
Show him through the rooms and let him look into the 
priests’ hole. But go quietly, Duncan, for I do not 
wish Mistress Audrey to be disturbed; by this time she 
will be asleep/ 

' Oh, we will go quietly, I assure you/ said Henry 
Brownrigg. ' I would not for the world alarm Audrey: 
she has looked sadly out of health since her mother’s 
death, and we must not let her be harassed by this 
affair. Pray say nothing to her about my visit/ 

' You are quite right/ said Sir Nicholas; ' she must 
not be disturbed or in any way troubled.’ 

So the Under- Sheriff was solemnly conducted round 
the house, and looked into every hole and cranny with 
the one exception of Audrey’s room; but, needless to say, 
he discovered no trace of the Jacobite, and before long 
was rowing back to Keswick greatly crestfallen and 
disappointed. 

In the meanwhile Sir Nicholas and the priest had 
been holding a consultation and had come to the con- 
clusion that it was necessary to take the old butler into 
their confidence. When he returned from bolting the 
great door upon the Under-Sheriff they had him into 
the study and told him the whole truth, making him 
swear perfect secrecy. 

' Now go and bid Mistress Audrey bring her uncle 
down once more, and bring some supper in here, for I 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


201 


doubt Mr. Radcliffe will be hungry after his journey/ 
said Sir Nicholas. 

Duncan bustled off in great excitement, eager to see 
with his own eyes this visitor whose presence he had 
strenuously and honestly denied to the Under-Sheriff. 

‘ Mistress Audrey/ he whispered, knocking softly 
on her door, c I was to tell you that all was safe 
below/ 

Audrey hastened across the room, and holding the 
rushlight in her hand, peered cautiously into the dark 
passage. 

‘Is Mr. Brownrigg gone?* she asked. 

‘ Ay, miss, he has searched the house and has gone, 
and I was to bid you and Mr. Radcliffe come down once 
more to the study/ 

Audrey, with a sigh of relief, unlocked the cupboard. 

‘’Tis all safe, uncle/ she whispered. 

And John Radcliffe, who had stretched himself out 
comfortably enough in the roomy dress-cupboard, 
sprang to his feet and gave the old butler a careless, 
kindly greeting. 

‘ ’Tis many a year since I met you, Duncan/ he said, 
‘ but, by the Mass! you’re not a day older as far as looks 
go. Come, my pretty niece, you have been the saving 
of me to-night, and I’m much mistaken if you haven’t 
sharper brains even than Father Noel, which is saying 
a good deal. By all means let us come down and have 
a family conclave/ 

Audrey, who was most eager to know all that her 
lover had said, was glad enough to make one of the 
little group which gathered round the table in the study 
while John Radcliffe made a hearty meal. 

With a sinking heart she heard of the disaster at 
Beachy Head and the threatened French invasion, yet 
it was a comfort to know that her grandfather by no 
means shared his brother’s views with regard to these 


202 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


matters, and she listened with a thrill of loving pride 
to his straightforward words. 

‘You know well enough, John, that I hate all your 
plottings and contrivings and will take no part in them. 
But blood is thicker than water, and I will do my 
utmost to shelter you. What are your plans? ’ 

‘ If I can take shelter here for a while until we see 
which way events run/ said J ohn Radcliffe, ‘ that is all 
I desire. If King James prospers in Ireland and the 
French invasion is successful in the south of England, 
why, I should return before long to London. If not, I 
should make my way to the coast and take ship for 
France. In any case a few weeks must decide the fate 
of the kingdom and my fate with it.’ 

‘ Uncle, you will not be safe in this house/ said 
Audrey quickly. 

c What! not even in the priests’ hole ? 9 

‘ The Under- Sheriff knows the secret of that since 
to-night/ said Father Noel. 

‘ And he will he constantly coming here to see me/ 
said Audrey, blushing. c I cannot parry his questions if 
you are in the house.’ 

John Radcliffe gave a low whistle of dismay. 

‘ Then what is to be done ? ’ he said composedly, help- 
ing himself a second time to the pigeon pie. ‘ I thought 
now he had once searched the house, all would he well.’ 

‘ There are many other hiding-places among the hills 
if you don’t mind being in the open air/ she suggested. 
‘ Michael and I used to know of several when we were 
children. I could take you myself this very night, and 
no one else knows of them.’ 

‘ But, my dear child, if you were seen wandering 
about the fells the truth would at once be guessed/ said 
Sir Nicholas. 

‘ There are few people astir in Borrowdale/ said 
Father Noel. ‘ She would be safe enough, and Henry 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


203 


Brownrigg is disposed of, at any rate, for to-night. I 
have just seen his boat disappear in the distance/ 

f How are we to tell that she may not happen upon 
some shepherd ? The less we desire to meet folk the 
more certain we are to do it, as a rule/ 

tf Grandfather/ said Audrey, 4 1 have thought of all 
that while waiting upstairs. It would never do to go in 
my own dress; but you remember how all the Borrow- 
dale folk say that the bogle still haunts the neighbour- 
hood and has by many of them been seen, dressed in 
the clothes he wore when he fought the duel with the 
Parliamentary officer from St. Herbert’s Isle. Now, 
upstairs we still have some of the clothes my father wore 
when he was a lad of seventeen. In old days I often 
used to help my mother to unfold them, and see that 
they were free from moth/ 

‘ And you would make your uncle wear these ? ’ asked 
Sir Nicholas. 

‘ No, I would wear them myself/ said Audrey, blush- 
ing a little. ‘ Then, did any chance to catch sight of us, 
they would at once run away, for there is nothing so 
much dreaded as the sight of the Borrowdale Bogle/ 
John Radcliffe laughed and rubbed his hands. 

‘ Bravo! little niece! did I not say you had the best 
wits of us all? You shall enact the ghost of the Royal- 
ist Radcliffe, and I for the nonce will be one of old 
Noll’s crew/ 

‘ Child/ said Sir Nicholas, putting his wrinkled hand 
on hers, ‘ do not rush into this escapade without think- 
ing. You are right to try to help your uncle, but 
remember that ’tis a perilous part you are about to play; 
one, moreover, which might be gravely misunderstood 
by Mr. Brownrigg should he ever by ill-chance come to 
hear of it/ 

‘I know/ said Audrey, ‘but oh, sir, anything is better 
than that Uncle Radcliffe should fall into Henry’s 


204 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


hands. I cannot hear to think that Henry should be 
the one to bring him to the gallows — anything is better 
than that ! 9 

Her eyes filled with tears, for it is hard to have to 
put into words the very fear with which the heart has 
been fighting. Moreover, there surged over her once 
more that horrible feeling that Henry had used her that 
morning as his tool, that even his devotion had been 
tinged with that other motive. 

She was recalled to the present by finding the entire 
breast of a fat capon thrust onto her empty plate. 

‘ Eat, my pretty niece, eat/ said J ohn Radcliffe. ‘ If 
you mean to pilot me across the fells to-night you will 
stand in need of a good supper. After all, you are flesh 
and blood, you know, and but a mock ghost/ 

She laughed, and did her best to obey, glancing now 
and then with something of curiosity at this unknown 
kinsman, who in the course of half an hour had suc- 
ceeded in making himself so entirely one of the 
family. 

Hot only in face was he curiously like his elder 
brother, hut the tone of his voice kept reminding her 
of some other voice which she knew, and she puzzled 
her brain to think which of the many Radcliffe cousins 
it could be. Though like Sir Nicholas in feature, he 
was twenty years younger, and his light periwig, alert, 
brisk manner, and upright carriage made him look less 
than his true age. There was, moreover, about him a 
buoyancy and youthfulness which astonished Audrey, 
and she began to understand that, whereas her grand- 
father hated the very notion of a plot and would not 
have stirred a finger to restore King James, Uncle Rad- 
cliffe revelled in anything likely to bring him excite- 
ment and stirring adventure, enjoying the Jacobite 
conspiracy as a hoy enjoys a risky game. 

‘ Uncle/ she said, ‘how long can you hear to shelter 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


205 


among the hills? I must go and arrange with Duncan 
to get your provisions for the next few days/ 

‘ Oh, if you’ll not starve me Fll bide my time patiently 
enough. And in a few days’ time there is bound to be 
news of one sort or the other/ 

( Very well, I will get you plenty of food; and look 
for me between ten and twelve at night on Wednesday, 
the 9th; then I can bring you fresh supplies and what- 
ever news we have heard/ 

She went away to make her preparations, and as the 
door closed gently behind her a silence fell on the little 
group gathered round the table. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Audrey’s footsteps had scarcely died away in the dis- 
tance, however, when old Sir Nicholas started to his 
feet. 

‘I must talk once more with her as to this notion/ 
he muttered to himself, slowly making his way from the 
room. 

John Radcliffe looked after him uneasily. 

‘ My brother likes it ill enough/ he said. ‘ Yet the 
maid is in the right; it is by far the best plan/ 

‘ It is undoubtedly the best plan for you/ said Father 
Noel with a certain dry emphasis on the pronoun which 
did not escape J ohn Radcliffe. 

‘ Also for you, my friend, and for my brother — all 
good Catholics are likely to fare ill if they are found 
sheltering a conspirator/ 

‘ Sir Nicholas does not trouble his head with that 
thought/ said Father Noel. ‘ It is, as you rightly 
divine, the best plan for you, hut not the best plan or 
the safest for Mistress Audrey/ 

‘ Well, what would you have. Father?’ said John Rad- 
cliffe, smiling. ‘Does not holy writ declare that the 
woman was to be a helpmeet for the man? When a 
woman offers her help freely, shall I refuse it? ’ 

‘ There is no fear that you will ever do that, sir/ said 
Father Noel dryly. 

‘You were ever hard on my little peccadilloes, Father. 
Yet you must admit that I proved a good husband to an 
invalid wife/ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


207 


c I say nothing against your second marriage, but you 
were greatly to blame as to the first, and, depend upon 
it, sir, you will yet be called to account for your crime/ 
e Come, Father, crime is a hard word/ said John 
Eadcliffe, refilling his tankard. ‘ Let us call it a mis- 
take, an error of judgment. And remember that I 
christened the imp before leaving him. That ought to 
be reckoned to me/ 

‘ Sir/ said the honest old priest, his face aflame. ‘ It 
was a piece of the most damned impudence I ever heard 
of! Don’t boast of it to me. The sacrament was valid, 
you say? Of course it was! But how you, with the 
most cold-blooded murder in your mind, dared to take 
such words on your lips passes my comprehension. I 
tell you frankly that I believe your child by the sec- 
ond marriage was drowned as a punishment for your 
blasphemy/ 

‘ I am quite aware that you account me a scoundrel, 
Father/ said John Radclifle with a good-humoured 
smile. ‘But I think you might remember that I am 
not, after all, a murderer, and that the child has grown 
and prospered; that, in fact, he is at present far better 
off than I am. To-night, for instance, he will he lapped 
in luxury, while I, for trying to aid my lawful sovereign, 
am bound to wander like an outcast on the mountains/ 
‘ I shall have nothing but hard words for you until 
you repent and make amends/ said the priest. ‘ I gave 
you every possible help by sending Michael to you in 
London. But you let all those months pass and never 
acknowledged him; nay, you deliberately baffled his 
efforts to discover the truth/ 

‘He was useless for the cause/ said John Radcliffe. 
‘ When he is likely to be useful I will acknowledge him, 
but not before/ 

Father Noel’s brow grew dark with anger. 

‘I used to think the Under- Sheriff the most selfish 


208 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


man living, but i’ faith I think you surpass him, sir/ he 
exclaimed wrathfully. 

‘ My dear old friend/ said J ohn Radcliffe with a 
laugh, f I do but go the way of all flesh. Here in these 
rural solitudes you, no doubt, have hearts, bowels of 
compassion, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of vir- 
tue, but such things shrivelled up in me many years ago. 
I care only for what will serve my turn. However, I 
think as a priest you should allow that my merit in 
trying to convert Michael Derwent to the true church 
ought to count/ 

‘ Your efforts to convert him failed/ said the priest 
gravely. ‘ And I think they deserved to fail. I have 
been your friend, John Radcliffe, for many years, and 
you’ll never get flattery or false comfort from me. That 
was a true word of the psalmist when he wrote, “ Evil 
shall hunt the wicked person to overthrow him/’ ’ 

* It may be a true word, but it’s a damned uncom- 
fortable one to quote to a fellow when there’s a warrant 
out against him and he has to pass the night in the 
open/ said John Radcliffe with his air of imperturbable 
good-humour. ‘ Come, a truce to this talk, and tell me 
a little more of my pretty niece. Is she really in love 
with this Under-Sheriff? ’ 

‘ Unluckily she is!’ said Father Noel, sighing. ‘I 
doubt it’s proving a happy marriage, but she honestly 
cares for the fellow. And I think he cares for her as 
much as his nature admits of. A cold-blooded fish of 
a fellow he is ; absorbed in himself and his own 
aggrandisement.’ 

e Yet a degree less heartless than I am/ said John 
Radcliffe with a twinkle in his bright eyes. ‘ Ah! in 
good time. Here comes old Duncan with half the con- 
tents of the larder. This is much better fare than what 
Father Noel has been forcing me to swallow, — you 
understand me thoroughly, Duncan. A brace of' ducks, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


209 


excellent ! a flagon of Hollands — my good old friend, 
why not keep to couples still as they did in the ark? — 
make it two flagons, Dnncan; they’ll be easier to carry. 
Bread enough to stock a stall in Keswick market place. 
Good! My exile will he endurable/ 

The old butler went off chuckling to himself in search 
of the second bottle of Hollands, and in another minute 
Sir Nicholas returned to the room so that no more could 
be said with regard to Michael Derwent. 

Meanwhile Audrey had taken out of the old oak 
chest in her mother’s room the clothes which must serve 
for the ghost. The doublet and vest she at once saw 
to be hopeless, for they were long, and cut after the 
fashion wore in the first year of the Restoration. More- 
over, in this summer weather they would prove most 
cumbersome and hot for a long walk. She chose instead 
the white frilled shirt; the short grey cloak, with its 
ample folds, lined with sky-blue taffeta; the knee 
breeches and stockings, also of grey, and the broad grey 
felt hat, with pale-blue feathers curling over the brim. 
All that remained to be done was to loosen the fillet 
which bound her hair, and to let her sunny curls hang 
quite loosely about her shoulders; and when this was 
done she could not resist laughing at her own reflection 
in the glass, so exactly did she resemble the young 
cavalier whose picture hung in the hall below. 

All fear had now left her, and her eyes were bright 
with the fun of this masquerade as she went downstairs 
to the study. Even old Sir Nicholas forgot his fears and 
scruples as he looked into the innocent face of the girl, 
who, without a thought of herself, so readily aided the 
unknown kinsman, though little approving of his views. 

John Radcliffe, about to make some jesting compli- 
ment as to the excellent fashion in which the cavalier 
costume became her, hesitated and finally left the words 
unuttered. For there was an unconsciousness about 
14 


210 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Audrey which somehow impressed him, and he resisted 
the temptation to see what she would look like when 
she blushed. 

The clock had struck one when at length all things 
were ready, and old Duncan appeared at the door with 
the provisions stowed away in a small sack, which John 
Kadcliffe swung across his shoulder. 

* Now, for all the world I am like Tinker Bunyan’s 
Pilgrim faring forth on his travels/ he exclaimed with 
a laugh. ‘ Come, lead the way, Audrey, for, like Chris- 
tian, I flee for my life and have turned my back on 
London, the City of Destruction. All the same, Father 
Noel, be sure to let me know the latest news from the 
city, for I hanker to return to it/ 

‘ I wish I could come with you to-night/ said the 
priest, ‘ but for this luckless knee of mine I could have 
been your pilot. Take care of your guide, sir, and don’t 
forget that she is risking much for you/ 

‘ Oh, depend upon it, she enjoys nothing better than 
such an adventure. It breaks the monotony of her life/ 
said John Kadcliffe, shaking Father Noel by the hand 
with careless good-nature. Then taking leave of his 
brother in the cordial, affectionate fashion which always 
attracted people to him, he followed Audrey out into 
the hall, down the steps, and across the wet grass which 
led to the landing-stage. In perfect silence they un- 
moored the boat. Audrey signing to him to take the 
oars took her place in the stern, and they made for the 
boat-house near Stable Hills Farm. 

It was now quite dark, save for the stars, and Audrey 
was glad when they had made their way safely across the 
field near the boathouse and had lit upon the mule 
track which led through the woods from Keswick to 
Grange and Rosthwaite. When once this was gained 
all was easy enough, and they walked on briskly beneath 
the trees, talking in low voices as they went. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


211 


* There is a light on St. Herbert’s Isle still/ said J ohn 
Radcliffe, pausing for a minute on the little plank 
bridge which had been thrown across the heck flowing 
down between Walla and Falcon crags. ‘ Is Sir Wilfrid 
Lawson there?’ 

Ho/ replied Audrey, ‘ but some of the children and 
Mr. Derwent, the secretary. It is most likely his light 
that we see, for he is a great reader and often studies 
late at night.’ 

A pleasant fellow. I met him in London/ said John 
Radcliffe, * though he knew me only under my assumed 
name of Calverley.’ 

c He is one of my best friends. We were always to- 
gether as children/ said Audrey as they walked on, e but 
of late somehow I have seen hut little of him. For one 
thing, Mr. Brownrigg never greatly likes him. They 
had a quarrel as boys. Henry always believes him to be 
base-born, and though it is practically proved that his 
mother was the daughter of old Mr. Carleton, near Pen- 
rith, and was wedded in London to some stranger, 
Michael can’t get a copy of the certificate, for it has 
been tampered with.’ 

‘ Poor fellow! ’ said John Radcliffe, ‘ that is hard luck 
on him. Are you sure that is Mr. Brownrigg’s reason 
for holding aloof from him? ’ 

‘ What other reason could there he ? ’ said Audrey, 
puzzled by his tone. 

‘ Well, I had a notion, possibly quite a wrong one, 
that they were rivals/ said John Radcliffe ; ‘ that in 
fact, my pretty niece, Sir Wilfrid’s penniless secretary 
had the audacity to love you, and that Mr. Brownrigg 
objected to him on that score.’ 

Audrey started, and was glad that the darkness hid 
her burning face. ‘I never thought of that/ she fal- 
tered, a dreadful conviction taking possession of her that 
her uncle’s surmise was true. 


212 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘Well, I am bound to own that Father Noel hinted 
at something of the sort in the letter he wrote to me 
about young Derwent. And I had not talked long 
with the lad when we first met at Whitehall without 
feeling convinced that the worthy father was right/ 

‘ I never thought of him but as my friend and foster- 
brother/ said Audrey with a sound of tears in her voice. 

‘Well, well, there’s no blame to you, my dear/ said 
J ohn Radcliffe; ‘ a maiden in your position is bound to 
have many servants all craving for her hand. Is that 
Barrow Gill that we hear tumbling over the rocks?’ 

‘ Yes/ said Audrey, recalled to the present. ‘ We 
must leave the shore now and climb the fells towards 
Ashness Farm. There is a track here to the left which 
the Watendlath people ride down on their way to 
Keswick Market.’ 

Leaving the shelter of the trees, they now began to 
ascend the rough track. The cool night air was deli- 
cious, and J ohn Radcliffe seemed to forget all the perils 
that beset him in sheer enjoyment of the present. 

‘ It makes me feel like a boy again/ he said. ‘ After 
all, though these damned Dutch folk cause me to be 
hunted like a partridge upon the mountains, they fur- 
nish me with unknown delights as well. And who 
knows? In a few days the tide may have turned; King 
James may enjoy his own again, and we shall then taste 
the sweets of hunting.’ 

f Place-hunting or Protestant-hunting?’ asked Au- 
drey with mirth in her voice. 

John Radcliffe laughed. 

‘I did not give thee credit for so apt a retort, my 
pretty niece. But, depend upon it, I shall never forget 
the good turn the Borrowdale Bogle is doing me to- 
night; and when the King comes to his own again, why, 
I will see to it that Henry Brownrigg is not molested, so 
you are serving your lover by this little escapade.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


213 


* Hush! ? cried Audrey, gripping his arm in a sudden 
panic. 

tf As I live! a light! , exclaimed John Radcliffe be- 
neath his breath. ‘ It moves too. It must he a lantern/ 

They stood perfectly still, watching anxiously to see 
whether the light drew nearer; then, when there could 
no longer he a question that it was steadily approaching 
them, Audrey swiftly drew her uncle out of the track, 
and moving a little to the right, whispered in his ear: 

‘ Crouch down at the further side of the thorn-hush 
by the gill. It must he someone from Ashness Farm/ 

John Radclitfe promptly obeyed, while Audrey, glid- 
ing to the near side of the hush, stood erect, her eyes 
fixed on the approaching light, knowing that the only 
chance of avoiding danger was to strike awe into the 
heart of whatever shepherd or dalesman it proved to he. 
She must enact the ghost and still her own fears, though 
her heart throbbed till she felt half suffocated. 

The lantern swung a little as its hearer strode down 
the hill; he seemed in haste, and Audrey fondly hoped 
that he might not even observe her, when just as he 
was passing within twenty yards something made him 
glance in the direction of the thorn-bush. For a mo- 
ment he paused, then, to her horror, lifted the lantern 
till its light fell full upon her. Her eyes dilated with 
terror, but by a supreme effort she stood absolutely still, 
and the next instant the terrible tension was relieved, 
for the shepherd with a loud cry rushed past, and she 
saw the lantern swaying madly to and fro as he plunged 
recklessly down the hill, while upon the still night air 
there floated hack gasping ejaculations of: 

‘Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 

Bless the ground that I tread on/ 

When at length all was still once more and the light 
had disappeared John Radcliffe crept out of his shelter 


214 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


at the further side of the thorn, and taking her hand, 
pressed it fast in his. 

‘ God bless you, little ghost/ he said. ‘ Why, how 
cold you are, child! It has given you a fright. Come! 
we must wait no longer, but hasten to shelter lest the 
good man returns upon his way. It was worth some- 
thing to see anyone in such a panic/ and he chuckled 
softly to himself as he thought of the shepherd’s horri- 
fied cry and of the way in which he had scuttled down 
the hillside. ‘ Who was the fellow, do you think? And 
what can have been his errand at this time of night? ’ 

‘ It was Tim Grisedale, the shepherd from Ashness 
Farm/ said Audrey, mounting the hill cheerfully again. 
‘ But what takes him out I do not know. See! there is 
a light in the farm. Perhaps his wife has been taken 
ill; she is the daughter of the miller of Lowdore, and 
Tim may have been going to fetch her mother to her.’ 

‘ In that case/ said J ohn Radcliffe, laughing, c he had 
better say naught as to his encounter with the ghost, or 
the good woman will not care to come out.’ 

‘ Oh/ said Audrey merrily, ‘ the shepherd has much 
more imagination than his mother-in-law ; she would 
only mock at his ghost story and say there were no such 
things as spirits walking the earth. I used to say so 
till I saw the ghost of Michael’s mother.’ 

John Radcliffe rapidly crossed himself. 

‘ Saw what?’ he asked sharply. 

‘ The ghost of Michael’s mother at Carleton Manor. 
I saw her by the gate, and the horses saw her too, and 
shied and ran away. That was the cause of the coach 
overturning, and my mother never really recovered from 
the accident, though she lived many months after it.’ 

( My dear child/ he said in an expostulating voice, 
‘is it likely that the dead would come from another 
world to make a couple of carriage horses overturn a 
coach?’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


215 


1 And yet you know, uncle, holy writ proves that ani- 
mals are often quicker to see spirits than men are. Be- 
sides, I can never for a moment doubt that I saw her 
myself. It was the very image of the picture at the 
manor, and of the miniature which Michael and I dug 
up in Borrowdale. Just that beautiful, innocent, girl- 
ish face — but of course you never saw the miniature, did 
you? * 

e N-no,’ said J ohn Radcliffe, shivering a little. ‘ Mr. 
Derwent would scarcely have shown it to a mere ac- 
quaintance. Isn’t there some legend about a “barfoot 
stag ” and a ghostly pack of hounds in this part of the 
world? ’ 

c They will not trouble us here,’ said Audrey, ‘ but the 
people at Rosth waite and Watendlath often hear them. 
They say the stag plunges into the Derwent, where it 
flows past the Bowder Stone. I have never heard it, 
but Agnes Collins of Grange and Anne Fisher used to 
tell us about it when we were children. Michael never 
would believe that it was anything but the wind roaring 
among the crags.’ 

By this time they had reached the ford where the 
Watendlath folk crossed Barrow Gill on their way to 
Keswick Market; and though crossing the stepping 
stones in the dark was no easy task, Audrey managed it 
better than she had expected and found that the ghost’s 
attire lent itself admirably to the rough scrambling 
over rock and fell and through bush and briar which 
followed. 

At length they gained the place among the woods in 
which as children she and Michael had so often played. 
It was a shallow cave hidden away among the brushwood 
and worn ages ago in the grey rock. To make a bed 
of heather and ling, to stow away the provisions, and to 
listen to her uncle’s cheery flow of talk, kept Audrey 
fully occupied for the next half hour; then satisfied as 


216 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


to his safety and promising to return on the evening of 
the fifth day with news and fresh provisions, she took 
leave of the kinsman who a few hours before had been 
utterly unknown to her, but to whose charm of manner 
she had so quickly responded. 

To make her way home quite alone in the dark was 
eerie enough; she breathed more freely when she was 
out of the wood and had the cheerful ripple of Barrow 
Gill for company. When she had safely forded the 
little stream she stood still for a moment, looking down 
through the gloom to the faint glimmer which just 
showed where Derwentwater lay in the valley below. 
She could see, too, the light on Lord’s Island, and the 
light still burned in Michael’s room on St. Herbert’s 
Isle. 

With a pang her uncle’s words returned to her. 
Could it indeed be true that he had loved her? She 
walked sorrowfully down the hill, musing over the past, 
thinking of the journey to Raby Castle and of the days 
there before Henry arrived, seeing many things in a 
wholly different light, shuddering to think how all un- 
consciously she had encouraged him. She had loved 
him always, but merely as her foster-brother and old 
playmate, while with him all had been different. Surely, 
too, he was greatly changed since her betrothal. He 
looked much older and graver; he eagerly availed him- 
self of every excuse to avoid her, and though now so 
near a neighbour, invariably put forward some excellent 
reason for refusing the invitations of Sir Nicholas or 
Father Noel. She had only met him once since his 
return from London, and then his manner had been 
strange and constrained; while his reference to her 
mother’s death had been merely formal and had chilled 
rather than comforted her. Was this the explanation 
of it all, and could it be, as her uncle said, that all the 
time Father Noel had known the truth of things? 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


217 


And then remembering the loneliness of Michael’s 
position, and the hard fate which had followed him 
from the very beginning of his life, the tears rushed to 
her eyes and half blinded her. 

The sting of it lay in the perception that it was quite 
out of her power to do anything for him. If this were 
indeed true, Henry Brownrigg’s jealousy and dislike 
were explained, and she could not hope even in the most 
distant future to serve Michael. Brushing the tears 
from her eyes that she might see her way, she was all 
at once horrified to find herself confronted by Tim 
Grisedale and his lantern, while beside him toiled Meg 
Mounsey, the miller’s wife. 

‘ Don’t talk to me of the Borrowdale Bogle! ’ said Meg 
Mounsey. ‘ ’Twas nowt but thy ain foolish fancy.’ 

‘ I say it were the bogle,’ said Tim doggedly, ‘ and 
look you! there it goes glidin’ awa’ over the fell.’ 

He stopped dead, and with trembling hands raised the 
lantern so that its rays fell upon the tall ghostly figure 
with its light plumes and antique cavalier dress. 

Meg Mounsey, the stubborn disbeliever in ghosts, fell 
on her knees. 

* Gude preserve us! ’ she cried, quaking with terror. 
‘ ’Twas the truth you told, Tim. And sair a doubt but 
it bodes ill to my poor lass at the farm.’ 

‘ See where it stalks down yonder,’ said Tim, staring 
with dilated eyes at the ghost as it glided away and 
finally disappeared among the trees at the foot of the 
hill. c Thank heaven, ’tis gone! ’ he gasped. ‘ How 
hasten, guid mother, lest it coom back! ’ 

And Meg Mounsey, nothing loth, rose from her knees 
and breathlessly climbed the fell, now and then glancing 
back in an awestruck way to see that the bogle was not 
pursuing them. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Ok the following morning the little town of Keswick 
was, as usual, crowded with country-folk coming in to 
dispose of their goods in the Market Square and to buy 
necessaries for the coming week. 

Zinogle, the fiddler, loved market day, for he was a 
sociable being and took great pleasure in chatting with 
the dales-folk and telling them the latest news. It was 
therefore only natural that, as he leant against the door- 
way of the old wooden building in the centre of the 
square which was dignified by the name of the Town 
Hall, he should be one of the first to listen to Tim 
Grisedale’s story of the Borrowdale Bogle. 

Now, it chanced that the Hnder-Sherifi was standing 
just inside the door, listening to the long-winded tale 
of the constable in whose charge a certain prisoner in 
the lock-up had proved refractory. Henry Brownrigg 
found the tale of the Borrowdale Bogle the more inter- 
esting of the two, and dismissing the constable with 
orders to punish the refractory prisoner and to have 
him removed with all speed to Cockermouth gaol, he 
stood listening carefully to what passed between the 
shepherd and the fiddler. 

c This looks strange/ he muttered to himself. ‘ It 
was last night I saw the boat go across to Lord’s Island 
and searched the house. Is it possible that this ghost 
can be the man we are in search of? ’ 

"Look here, my good fellow/ he exclaimed, sud- 
denly emerging from the doorway to Tim’s con- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


219 


sternation, ‘at what time did you see this Borrowdale 
Bogle ? ’ 

i Aw, zur, it were after midnight; mappen aboot two 
o’clock or mappen a hit earlier, the first time/ said the 
shepherd. 

‘ Yon saw it twice, then? Whereabouts ? 9 

< First by Barrow Gill, far up the fell, and again with 
Meg Mounsey as I coom back, and then it were lower 
doon the hill, stalkin’ awa’ oyer towards Falcon Crag, 
but bearin’ doon to the shore until I lost sight of it in 
the trees.’ 

‘You are sure it was no idle fancy? You shepherd- 
folk are apt to see visions.’ 

‘ Zur, mappen that he true, hut Meg Mounsey she he 
solid and slow in the head-piece, and she saw it and 
droppit on her knees, a-callin’ herself a miserable sinner, 
for, but a wee whilie afore, she had sworn there was no 
sech things as bogles.’ 

Zinogle chuckled. 

‘ Meg Mounsey is evidence; no one can gainsay that,’ 
he said. ‘ A stuck pig has more imagination. If Meg 
Mounsey saw a bogle, why, sir, the bogle must have been 
there.’ 

‘ Dressed like a cavalier, you say, with light plumes 
in its hat and a short cloak? ’Tis a strange story! I 
have a mind to look into this matter. If I remember 
right, there is some idle tale in the country-side about 
one of the Radcliffes that was killed in the civil war and 
has ever since walked. We will set a few folk to look 
for this disturber of the peace, and if you see it again, 
Tim, let me know with all speed. Zinogle, if I mistake 
not, yonder comes your godson, the foundling; have the 
goodness to ask him to step across here and speak to 
me.’ 

Zinogle, inwardly raging at the Under-Sheriff’s rude- 
ness, slowly approached Michael. 


220 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ Our cock-a-hoop Under-Sheriff desires speech with 
ye/ he said, ‘ and, for the love of God, do take him down 
a peg or two; speak to him in the latest f angled London 
fashion/ 

Michael laughed at the old fiddler’s comical expres- 
sion, and in truth there was a new dignity in his manner 
horn of self-restraint, and a certain nameless ease of 
hearing gained by mixing more with his fellowmen. 
Henry greeted him in his usual patronising tone, but 
instinctively felt that he no longer had the power to 
gall his old schoolfellow. 

‘ There is a strange story afoot to-day about the Bor- 
rowdale Bogle/ he said when the salutations were over. 
‘ Have you ever heard of it? As a native of Borrowdale, 
you ought to know the truth of such things/ 

‘ Oh/ said Michael with a laugh, ‘ I have heard that 
old wife’s tale many a time, but I never put any faith 
in it/ 

‘ What form is it supposed to take? ’ 

‘ Why, the form of the young kinsman of old Sir 
Edward Badcliffe, who garrisoned Lord’s Island in the 
civil war. ’Tis true enough, I believe, that he was killed 
in a duel on the shores of Derwentwater somewhere be- 
tween Lord’s Island and Lowdore, and of course the 
dales-folk say that he walks/ 

‘You never by any chance saw him?’ said Henry 
Brownrigg with a searching look. 

‘Never/ said Michael, ‘nor do I expect ever to see 
him.’ 

‘Yet here is Tim Grisedale ready to take his Bible 
oath that both he and Meg Mounsey of Lowdore saw 
the ghost last night, or rather before dawn this morning/ 

‘Meg Mounsey! ’ cried Michael, bursting into a hearty 
boyish laugh. ‘ Well, that passes all belief ! If Meg 
Mounsey takes to ghost-seeing I shall have to believe in 
them, for a more matter-of-fact body doesn’t exist. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


221 


Surely ’twas something of a solid and corporeal nature 
that she saw, a white horse maybe, or a stray cow/ 
‘Well, they described the ghost as in cavalier dress 
with light plumes in his hat/ said the Under- Sheriff. 
c ’Tis a very odd tale. If Audrey had seen it I should 
not have been surprised, for she is out of health and 
broods too much over her mother’s death; moreover, she 
has imagination, and, as you will remember, fancied she 
saw a vision at Carleton Manor last year/ 

‘ Yes/ said Michael gravely, 6 I could never under- 
stand that story; it was one of the things which no one 
can explain. Perhaps, after all, in certain states of mind 
and body the spirit world can make itself visible to us. 
I have no belief in this silly tale of the Borrowdale 
Bogle, yet I confess to a sneaking belief in such a pur- 
poseful return as that of the ghost in Hamlet . This is 
bad news as to the defeat off Beachy Head. I had heard 
nothing of it till this morning. How distracted the 
poor Queen will be! Is there no news from Ireland?’ 

c Hone as yet/ said Henry Brownrigg gloomily. 
‘ Things look black indeed for the future. Did you 
hear anything before you left London of the Jacobite 
plottings ? 9 

( Oh! there was of course much talk about them/ 
said Michael with a momentary hesitation which did not 
escape the keen and observant Under-Sheriff. 

‘ But naturally you did not hear anything but 
rumours. You did not happen to become acquainted 
with any of these plotters ? 9 

How, Michael had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr. 
Calverley was embroiled in the J acobite plot, but he was 
not minded to say so to Henry Brownrigg. 

‘I had little time for making acquaintance of any 
sort/ he replied evasively. ‘ A private secretary has to 
be at the beck and call of his master. And though Sir 
Wilfrid Lawson is, as you know, the most considerate 


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of men, this legal business of his gave one plenty to 
do/ 

With that he raised his hat and bade the Under- 
Sherilf good day, leaving him in some perplexity. 

c I would give much to know whether that fellow is 
in league with the priest on Lord’s Island/ he reflected. 
‘ There was no getting anything out of him to-day; yet 
I am much inclined to fancy that he knows something 
of Mr. John Badcliffe, alias Mr. James Calverley. I 
shall go in for a little ghost-stalking for the next week 
or two, and see if I can’t get hold of our fugitive. 
Mounsey, the miller, will make a good patrol, and I’ll 
bring over Matt Birkett from Millbeck; he is a wary 
fellow and has the eyes of a hawk. If we can only get 
hold of John Badcliffe, it will suit my game admirably, 
and should it chance that Michael Derwent is mixed up 
in the affair, why, all the better, for I hate the fellow 
and owe him a grudge.’ 

Audrey paid the penalty of her escapade by being 
prostrated the next day by a violent attack of nervous 
headache, called in those days an attack of the megrim, 
and was still too poorly on the Sunday to go as usual 
to the Church of St. ICentigern at Crosthwaite. Per- 
haps she was not sorry to remain at home, for it deferred 
her meeting with Henry, and somehow she dreaded this, 
fearing that he might ask some unanswerable question, 
or that she might by some hesitation of manner betray 
the secret that had been entrusted to her. 

Fortunately for her, the Under-Sheriff happened to 
be unusually busy, and it was not until the afternoon of 
Tuesday that he was able to visit Lord’s Island again. 
Audrey was sitting in the orchard in one of her favour- 
ite nooks under the apple trees that grew near the 
water’s edge on the south end of the island. She came 
swiftly forward to greet her lover, forgetting for a mo- 
ment all that had happened in the pleasure of his ap- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


223 


proach. What were Jacobite plots, or religious dif- 
ferences, or fugitive great-uncles when love was in 
question? 

For a time her tender womanliness called out all that 
was best in Henry Brownrigg; he forgot his schemes, 
and his sordid, hard-hearted plans for the future; just 
for a little while he became what she dreamt him to be 
— single-hearted, generous, and devoted. 

f I was sorry/ he said, c to have to search the house 
the other night. I hope, dear heart, you did not take 
it amiss/ 

‘ Why, no/ said Audrey. ‘ You had to do your duty, 
and I know you bear no ill will to my grandfather/ 

‘ Indeed I do not/ he said. ‘ Everyone respects Sir 
Nicholas. But his brother is a very different man, a 
dangerous plotter, a hard-hearted bigot, one that would 
relentlessly persecute all who were not of his faith, 
should his party ever return to power/ 

‘ But surely it never can return/ said Audrey eagerly. 

‘ Indeed, there is grievous fear that it may/ said the 
Under- Sheriff, and he spoke truly enough, for never 
had England been in such jeopardy as during those 
summer days. ‘ Here is the English fleet disgracefully 
beaten, and the French fleet, in unopposed possession of 
the Channel, likely to swoop down at any time and 
harry our coast. And there is this accursed Jacobite 
plot, showing grievous dissensions in the country, and, 
worst of all, an express has just arrived with news that 
King William has been wounded in Ireland on the banks 
of the Boyne/ 

Audrey’s eyes filled with tears; it was not only that 
the desperate condition of the country troubled her, but 
that the miserable position she found herself in seemed 
all at once to grow intolerable. Was she, whose sym- 
pathies were all with King William and Queen Mary, 
and the cause they had come to defend, to be called 


224 


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upon to tramp over the fells, bearing to the fugitive the 
news he would gloat over of the King’s wound? 

‘ Don’t fret over the disaster/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
putting his arm round her. ‘ A wound in the shoulder 
from a ball is a dangerous thing, and the King’s con- 
stitution is sickly, yet we may at least hope that his life 
will be spared. And should the worst happen that 
King James and his tyranny be brought back to this 
land, why, I think Sir Nicholas Radcliffe will do his 
utmost to prevent any evil coming on his grand- 
daughter’s husband.’ 

He stooped and kissed her hand, and Audrey’s spirits 
revived a little as she remembered that IJncle Radcliffe 
had himself spoken somewhat similar words as they 
climbed the fells in the dark, and had reminded her that 
she was, after all, serving her lover. 

Still there remained with her the heavy sense that a 
concealment was being practised, an unavoidable con- 
cealment, but one that was nevertheless hateful to her; 
while Henry Brownrigg also felt somewhat hampered 
by his determination to say nothing to her as to the 
story of the Borrowdale Bogle, and his suspicions and 
precautions with regard to it. 

A silence fell between them. Audrey’s eyes wandered 
to the wooded heights between Barrow Gill and Low- 
dore, and she wondered how Uncle Radcliffe was faring 
in the cave where she had hidden him, and thought with 
a shudder of the lonely walk she must take on Wednes- 
day night. Henry meantime fell into a reverie, weigh- 
ing the chances for and against his capturing John 
Radcliffe, and wondering whether he could ply Audrey 
with a few questions without putting her too much upon 
her guard. He started a little when at last she spoke. 

‘Did you say, Henry, that King William had been 
wounded during a battle ? ’ 

‘ No, they say he had just breakfasted beside the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


225 


Boyne; on the opposite side of the river the Popish army 
was drawn up, and just as the King mounted his horse 
a ball struck him. No doubt by this time the battle 
they were then expecting has been fought. What would 
one not give to know which side had won! But news 
travels slowly; all this happened some days ago, yet the 
news only reached us here this afternoon/ 

She sighed. ‘ Let us talk no more of public matters/ 
she said wearily. ‘ Instead let us plan the arrangements 
for our wedding. You will not mind, Henry, if it is 
quite a quiet wedding; it is too soon after our sorrow to 
have any merrymaking/ 

‘ I mind nothing so long as you will not again post- 
pone the day. Remember that we arranged it should 
be in August. You are sure your grandfather was not 
hurt by my visit the other night? You see it was a 
matter of official duty. I had no choice but to search 
for this refugee/ 

‘ Oh, my grandfather understood that, and indeed he 
said you seemed to dislike your task/ said Audrey. 

‘What is Mr. John Radcliffe like ? 5 said Henry 
Brownrigg, watching her narrowly as he put the 
question. 

She sprang quickly to her feet and took his hand in 
hers. ‘ Come into the house/ she said. ‘ His picture 
hangs in the hall and you can judge for yourself/ 

‘ Well! ? thought Henry, ‘ evidently the uncle is not 
here, or she would not suggest my coming in/ 

‘HI not come in/ he said. ‘It would scarcely be 
courteous to Sir Nicholas after the other night. Tell 
me what your Uncle Radcliffe is like/ 

‘ Well, the picture was painted some years ago, but in 
those days of periwigs men change but little; no doubt 
it is still very much like him/ said Audrey reflectively. 
‘He is standing very erect and looks active and vigorous; 
his eyes look bright and eager, and his periwig is of a 
15 


226 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


rather bright light-brown colour, much like my hair. 
He is twenty years younger than my grandfather, and 
has always, they tell me, enjoyed the best of health, so 
that people often fancy he is younger than he really is/ 
‘ Is he a tall man? ’ 

‘ I remember once hearing my grandfather say that 
he was a somewhat small-made man, much about the 
same height and build as Michael Derwent/ said Audrey, 
surprised by the calmness of her own manner. 

‘ Derwent can’t he more than five foot seven or eight/ 
said Henry Brownrigg, drawing himself up in the proud 
consciousness of his six feet three inches, and unable to 
resist a sneer at his old schoolfellow. ‘ I well remember 
what a puny little fellow he was as a hoy. Well, my 
love, I must not linger here. I shall see you again 
doubtless in a few days’ time/ 

For a moment Audrey felt relieved that he should go; 
then reproaching herself with the feeling, she took leave 
of him with a tenderness and a warmth of demonstra- 
tion which she seldom manifested. 

‘ Oh! if only Uncle Radcliffe were safely out of the 
country! ’ she thought to herself as she felt Henry’s 
strong arm about her. ‘ How restful and safe all would 
he! How Henry would shield me and care for me! ’ 

‘ Clearly Audrey has not seen this Jacobite kinsman,’ 
reflected the Under-Sheriff, ‘yet, for all that, he may 
very likely be sheltering in the neighbourhood. That 
priest with his humbugging knee — all a sham, no doubt 
— would he quite capable of hiding him, for he knows 
the fells better than anyone about here. I shall keep 
on the alert and have my sentinels in readiness/ 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Recollections of Michael Derwent. 

The chronicle begun long ago in the quiet of the 
long vacation at Cambridge hath remained untouched 
for many months. For by the time I had written of 
my arrival in London, of my first impressions of Sir 
William Denham’s household, and of the eventful even- 
ing at Whitehall when I first encountered Mr. James 
Calverley, there seemed little time for writing. For 
London, I perceive, is a place where all is haste and 
bustle, where men talk, and argue, and jostle up against 
each other, but where it is no easy task to think, or to 
read or to write in peace and quiet. 

Nevertheless, that which is not done at once remains 
undone, for now, sitting in solitude in my room on St. 
Herbert’s Isle, that brief stay in London seems to me 
like a dream, and for the most part a dream I care not 
to dwell upon. Specially I would fain free my mind 
from the remembrance of the hours spent with James 
Calverley and his friends, for though at the time they 
had a strange fascination about them, I know well that 
had it not been for other influences, these subtle men, 
with their arguings and their specious reasoning, would 
have had me ere long in their power and used me as 
their tool. London, however, though it brought me 
face to face with evil of every sort, brought me also the 
best of gifts. For, apart from the gift of a good mother, 
and a true and loving wife, — luxuries which fate had 


228 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


denied to me, — there is no gift to be compared to the 
friendship of an unselfish and pure-minded woman. 

During these hard days after my return, when the 
knowledge that Audrey was close at hand, though for 
ever cut off from me, made me at times well-nigh des- 
perate, it was the thought of Mistress Mary Denham, 
and of the quiet courage with which she lived her life, 
that proved my best support. Many a time, too, I lived 
over again our visit to the Friends’ meeting-house and 
the memorable day when we heard George Fox; while 
to her also I owed introductions to many of the most 
noteworthy people, to the sweet-natured Lady Temple, 
to the delightful family of the Evelyns, and to the Dean 
of St. Paul’s. I am sure Dean Tillotson’s broad-hearted 
charity and practical religion keep many men nowa- 
days from drifting into utter unbelief when sickened by 
the bickerings and wranglings of those who make more 
of their pet dogmas than of Christianity itself, — which, 
as the Dean teaches, is Love. Dogmatic teachers always 
make me think of physicians who, while the patient is 
dying of starvation and want of care, insist that he shall 
first rehearse the names science has given to every bone 
in the body. Worse still, the physicians do not agree 
with each other and quarrel while the poor wretch is at 
his last gasp; one set declaring that he will regain health 
by certain movements of the arms, the other faction 
contending that the legs are the important members. 

Unless some sensible good Samaritan chances to pass 
that way, the victim is apt to expire, muttering the 
words of the dying Mercutio: 

‘ A plague on both your houses ! ’ 

I had written thus far when one of the children ran 
into the room bearing a letter which had been brought 
over by a messenger from Keswick. I saw at once that 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


229 


it was from Mistress Mary Denham, and breaking the 
seal, — a very dainty one in green wax, hearing the device 
‘ Sursum cor da / — I read the following lines: 

‘ Sir : 

We were glad to learn that you had made a safe journey to 
the north, and regret much that Sir Wilfrid should have found 
so dire a foe as the small-pox to greet him at Isel. Your de- 
scription of the solitude of the island on Derwentwater reads 
strangely here in London, and I think from what you say that 
it is something of a trial to you to be once more in a place 
where all outwardly is the same as in old days, while in other 
respects so much has altered. But, after all, this letter is not 
just to say that I am sorry for your loneliness, but to tell you 
of a matter which I think may interest you. This day Lady 
Temple came to see me, and we spoke much of the arrest of the 
Jacobite plotters and of all suspected persons. The most note- 
worthy is her Majesty’s uncle, my Lord Clarendon, who is 
now lodged in the Tower, and that Catholic gentleman you 
used to meet at Mr. Winter’s chambers — Mr. Anthony Sharp — 
is also arrested : it seems that he is a priest in disguise. Lady 
Temple told me that a warrant was also made out for the arrest 
of Mr. James Calverley, but that he had contrived to leave 
London. Now comes the strange part : it seems that Calverley 
was but an assumed name, and that he is in truth a Mr. John 
Radcliffe, younger brother and heir to Sir Nicholas Radcliffe, 
your friend on Lord’s Island. This will perhaps explain Father 
Noel’s friendship with him, and the civility he showed to you. 
The poor Queen is well-nigh distracted with anxiety and grief, 
for indeed the country seems to be in great danger, and she 
scarcely knows who maybe reckoned on as trustworthy friends 
and advisers. I think there never can have been a more de- 
voted wife than she ; ’tis a grievous pity that his Majesty is 
merely a brave soldier, and scarce merits such a noble woman 
as his Queen. I fear, from what Lady Temple says, he is one of 
those who will learn, too late, rightly to value what they have 
lost, and will be of the many husbands who erect fine tomb- 
stones with touching epitaphs to their wives, yet when they 
were living could not even be faithful to them. 

My uncle sends you his kind remembrances, and says that if 
you have leisure you would do him a great service by making 


230 


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that collection of all the moths to be found in the woods sur- 
rounding Derwentwater which we talked of before you left 
London. He and his friend Dr. Martin Lister have already 
received fine specimens from diverse counties. Dr. Lister says 
the best way to set about it is to go out when it is dark, having 
previously, by day, put treacle on the trunks of certain trees. 
This attracts the moths, and you will find no difficulty in cap- 
turing them. Yet have a care, or someone may mistake you for 
a highwayman, or for the ghost you told me of which haunts 
Borrowdale ! There is as yet no book writ upon moths, though 
the late Mr. Willoughby had often desired to attempt the study 
of them, but died before he could carry it out. I hope to secure 
some at Katterham, and should you have an opportunity of 
sending any specimens to London they had best be directed to 
Sir William, for I shall be with my uncle, Sir Joscelyn Hey- 
worth, at the Court House for the next two months. Mr. 
Wharncliffe lias just been to call upon us. He says that to-day 
he met Mr. Winter on the stairs at his chambers in King’s 
Bench Walk, and that, happening to mention something as to 
Mr. Calverley’s escape, Mr. Winter said he had heard a rumour 
that he had fled to France, but knew not if ’twas true. I give 
it you for what 'tis worth, knowing that you had some liking 
for him and, though not approving his views, would scarce 
wish him to be thrown into prison merely on suspicion. I can 
never think of the inside of our prisons without a shudder, for 
truly they are hells on earth. It hurts one to see the poor souls 
being dragged to Tyburn, perhaps just for some petty theft, 
and yet I am not sure that it is not a better fate than to linger 
on in gaol, for God is merciful and men are not. We were 
trying the other night, as we read Willoughby’s book on birds, 
to remember some of your Borrowdale names for them, but I 
could not get further than “ Jack-eslop ” for a kite, and “ Joan- 
na-ma-cronk ” for a heron ! I think you must have more time 
in your part of the world, or you would never use such long 
names ! Do not forget to tell us any observations you make, 
as to any kind of animal life, for it is the one thing now which 
interests Sir William. As he grows older he takes less and 
less interest in politics, having, I think, lived through too many 
changes to be surprised at anything. But they say he never 
was at heart aught but a naturalist ; and Uncle Heyworth has 
a story of how, when he was made prisoner in the civil war, and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


231 


Uncle Denham and my father were appointed as the officers 
who were responsible for him, Uncle Denham crowded up the 
little room they shared in Farnham Castle, with spiders and 
newts and frogs, on which he was experimenting ; these crea- 
tures — not being on ‘parole — were always escaping, while poor 
Uncle Heyworth had to stay, eating his heart out as a prisoner 
of war. 

However, I ramble on about the past when at any moment 
we may have the French fleet in the Thames, and London at- 
tacked. It were better to despatch this letter to you at once, 
specially as my cousin Rupert promises to take it himself as 
far as York and to send it on safely from there. 

With kind remembrances from us all, 

I rest, your friend, 

Mary Denham. 

Written at Norfolk Street, 

This 27th day of June, 1690.’ 

There was not a word in the letter of Audrey Kad- 
cliffe, and yet I knew that Mistress Denham understood 
why it was that this enforced stay on St. Herbert’s Isle 
was so specially hard to me. She knew my story and 
readily divined much that I had never told her in words. 
More than once we had spoken, however, of the difficul- 
ties of the position and of the best course to steer. Nor 
was I without a shrewd suspicion that all this study of 
moths was with a view to giving me something fresh to 
think of, and to keep me from dwelling on those past 
memories which made every part of Derwentwater and 
Borrowdale a place of pain and peril to me. 

Turning over the sheet once more, I read her words 
about James Calverley, and marvelled to think that I 
had never guessed his secret. For now, that I thought 
of it, I well remembered his picture, taken in early life, 
and had often looked at it in the hall at Lord’s Island. 
No doubt that subtle attraction he had possessed for me 
lay in his unknown kinship with Audrey. And then 
a fresh thought rushed into my mind and put me to no 


r 

232 HOPE THE HERMIT 

small perturbation. Had he and his friends succeeded 
in bringing me over to the Romish Church, would they 
have tried to stop the Brownrigg marriage, which was so 
distasteful to them? Was this perhaps what Father 
Noel had all the time been aiming at? Was this his 
reason for deliberately forcing me that time in the pre- 
vious autumn to be as much as might be in Audrey’s 
presence? It seemed possible, and, much as I hated 
Henry Brownrigg, the thought of playing so mean a part 
made me recoil. A thousand times I blessed Mistress 
Denham for having saved me from falling a victim to 
the arguments of Anthony Sharp and James Calverley, 
and with an effort I banished Audrey’s face from my 
mind and plunged desperately into the dreary work of 
correcting my pupils’ Latin exercises. 

The next few days were eventful. First came the 
news of the terrible disaster off Beachy Head, and dread 
of a French invasion of the southern countries filled the 
whole land with a panic which is indescribable. Then 
soon after came the woeful tidings that King William 
had been wounded in Ireland. By the time the news 
reached Paris, they told us afterwards that the wound 
had become magnified into a fatal wound, and the 
French had burnt his effigy in triumph, together with 
the effigy of the devil bearing a scroll with the saying — 
* I have been waiting for thee these two years.’ 

It was, I must own, in great dejection that I rowed 
into Keswick on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 9th 
July, to learn if any fresh news had been received. It 
was one of those cloudy days with every now and then 
bright gleams of sunshine, which we so often get in these 
parts. To the north the great mass of Skiddaw was 
flecked with purple shadows, while the Yale of Newlands 
was filled with mist, out of which the mountains rose 
like rocks from sea-foam. 

J ust as I gained the landing-stage and moored the boat 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


233 


the sun shone out gloriously, and, looking hack, I saw 
that grand vista in which you look up the whole length 
of Derwentwater with its wooded shores and islands, and 
from end to end of craggy Borrowdale, the rugged 
heights of Glaramara blocking the southern end, and 
Castle Crag guarding what we call the jaws of the dale. 
As I looked, the bell of Crosthwaite Church rang out 
a joyful peal, — surely that must mean that good news 
had arrived. Hurrying into the little market town, I 
eagerly inquired, and soon learnt that the bells were 
being rung because King William’s wound had proved 
to be of the slightest and because, on the following day, 
he had gained a great victory over King James, who 
had deserted his army and was flying with all speed to 
France, leaving the poor Irish who had rallied in his 
support to shift for themselves as best they might. I 
rowed back, feeling as though a huge load had been 
lifted off my heart, but as I passed Lord’s Island my 
own personal trouble seized upon me once more, for 
there, down by the shore, feeding her swans, stood 
Audrey, and catching sight of me, she gave the clear, 
ringing call with which we had always signalled to each 
other as children. I had no choice but to obey her, but 
I determined not to quit the boat. 

‘ What are the church bells ringing for?’ she asked 
eagerly. ‘I had heard of no wedding.’ 

I remembered with a pang that probably the next 
time they rang a peal it would be for her marriage with 
the Under- Sheriff, which they told me had been fixed 
for next month; it almost seemed as if she read my 
thoughts, for suddenly a burning flush rose in her 
cheeks and her eyes grew bright as if with unshed 
tears. 

‘ The bells ring because of King William’s victory in 
the battle of the Boyne,’ I replied, f and because King 
James has deserted the Irish as he deserted the English, 


234 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and is by this time, no doubt, safely in France. The 
news has been long in reaching us, for the battle, they 
say, was fought on the first of this month; we are always 
somewhat behind the time in these parts/ 

f Then you think the country is* out of danger? 5 she 
asked with anxious eyes. 

‘ Yes, people say that a battle so decisive must prac- 
tically end the war in Ireland, and the French King will 
scarcely stand by such a poltroon as King J ames. Truly 
he seems to think only of himself! He is curiously 
lacking in his father’s courage. How is Father Noel’s 
knee ? , 

It still disables him/ said Audrey. ‘ Will you not 
come in and see him? He will want to hear the news/ 
But I was not minded to stay longer than I need in 
her company, which had no good effect on me, while 
the prospect of telling news which must be unwelcome 
to one of Father Koel’s way of thinking, did not attract 
me. I made a hurried excuse, and wishing her good- 
day, rowed off to St. Herbert’s Isle. 

I wondered that she did not hasten into the house to 
carry the news to her grandfather; perhaps she felt that 
it would be unpleasant to bear him news which could 
hardly fail to pain any Roman Catholic. At any rate, 
she stood there on the shore, now and then throwing a 
bit of bread to her swans, but always with her eyes fol- 
lowing my boat. I watched her till I could distinguish 
nothing but her black dress against the green of the 
trees in the background, and a bright gleam where the 
sunshine fell upon her hair. All the time, through the 
aching of my heart, there was an odd consciousness of 
having lived through this before, not only this slow 
separation — this parting long drawn out — from Audrey, 
but also the passionate inward appeal against a fate 
which seemed always to be against me. 

Then, suddenly, as I glanced towards Lowdore, it all 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


235 


came back to me. I was once more a little child, sob- 
bing on the grass, and Audrey’s boat had become a mere 
speck in the distance. 

‘ Snoggles! ’ I had cried, c was it wrong of me to be 
picked up under a bush? ’ 

And dear old Zinogle had allowed me to bury my face 
in his rough frieze coat, and had said that I need feel no 
shame, and that hope was to be my guiding star. 

Well, just now there did not seem much left to hope 
for — only, in fact, to hope that I might live through 
this evil time bravely, not bitterly, and prove myself 
not wholly unworthy of the friendship of Mistress 
Denham. 

Thinking of her thus, I resolved to go mothing that 
evening, and hailing two of the children who stood by 
the landing-place on St. Herbert’s Isle, bade them run 
and ask Dickon’s wife for some treacle. Then we all 
three rowed across to the woods on the eastern shore 
of Derwentwater, about opposite the little islet of 
Rampsholme, and, having prepared the tree-trunks 
according to Mistress Denham’s directions, returned 
home to get ready such things as would be wanted that 
night — a dark lantern, a wallet, and sundry little boxes 
for the moths I hoped to capture. 

The house on Herbert’s Isle was but small, and now, 
that some of the Isel servants were sick with the small- 
pox, we lived very quietly, there being on the island 
only myself and my two pupils, and Dickon and his wife 
who lived always in the island house, taking charge of it 
and waiting upon us. It must have been about ten 
o’clock that I bade Dickon good-night, telling him that 
I hoped to return from my mothing expedition in about 
an hour’s time, and carrying with me the key of the 
house door, although, indeed, it was scarce likely that 
any should try to enter during my absence. 

The night was cloudy, though, being still early in 


236 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


July, it was not so dark but that one could see the out- 
lines of the mountains and make out easily enough the 
place where we had landed in the afternoon. Any sort 
of hunt is not without pleasure to a man, and I confess 
to haying forgotten everything else in the eager pursuit 
of my treacle-lured victims, which, truly enough, were 
on the tree-trunks, as Mistress Denham had said, when 
the sound of steps and voices close by made me start 
violently. 

‘ Tut, tut, man/ said one of the voices, ‘ ’twas nowt 
but thy fancy/ 

‘ Nay, ’twas the bogle/ said the other, and I at once 
recognised the voice of Mounsey, the miller of Lowdore. 

‘ Hullo, Mounsey! ’ I cried, willing to relieve the 
man’s abject terror. ‘ ’Tis not the Borrowdale Bogle. 
’Tis I, Michael Derwent. What are you doing here at 
this time of night?’ 

‘Why, sir, I’m main glad to see you/ gasped the 
miller. ‘Me and Matt Birkett of Millbeck have been 
set by the Under-Sheriff to find out the truth of this 
Borrowdale Bogle that has been seen by many of late. 
Mr. Brownrigg, he will get to the bottom of it, he says, 
and if so be it be one of the lads dressed up just to 
scare the women-folk, he says he’ll have him set in the 
stocks. My gude wife has been ill ever since the night 
she saw the bogle by Barrow Gill.’ 

‘ Oh! I heard it had been seen/ I said, laughing? 
‘And Tim Grisedale saw it first of all, I understand. 
Who else has come across it? ’ 

‘ Well, sir, there be Nanny, the dairymaid at Ashness 
Farm. She has been scared nearly out of her senses, 
for, waking at dawn and going down to see some sickly 
chicken she was nursing up, she saw the bogle making 
as though it would drown itself in the beck, but couldna 
drown, being only a spirit. Then it wrung its hands 
very sorrowfully, and before she could stir for fright, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


237 


it had disappeared in Ashness woods, whereat Nanny- 
fell a-screeching like an owl, and frightened the whole 
household/ 

Mr. Brownrigg/ said Matt Birkett, a donr-looking 
man, who spoke now for the first time, ‘ puts little faith 
in ghosts and bogles, and thinks more likely 5 tis some 
worthless loon, a thieving Scot, or a highwayman. But, 
after all, sir, it may have been just yoursel’, if I might 
mak’ bold to ask what you are doing/ 

‘ I am catching moths/ I said, showing them one of 
my prisoners. They stared at me so incredulously that 
I thought they fancied me mad. * But this is the first 
night I have been out/ I explained; ‘ so the ghost has 
still to be accounted for/ 

6 ’Tis blawin’ up for rain/ said Mounsey. ‘ Coom to 
the mill, Matt Birkett, and shelter awhile. Nowt can 
pass by the mill, be it bogle or body, without my seeing 
it from the window of my gude wife’s kitchen/ 

f Good-night, sir/ said Birkitt, still eyeing me sus- 
piciously as I added another moth to my collection. 

f Good-night/ I said cheerfully. ‘ Good luck to you 
in your bogle-hunt/ 

Alas! had I but known what would follow, those 
were the very last words that would have crossed my 

' lips- 

The two men tramped off in the direction of Low- 
^cfore, and by the time their steps had died away in the 
distance, I had all my boxes full, and was about to go 
back to the boat, when something made me glance along 
the mule track which led to Keswick. My heart began 
to throb painfully, for, gliding swiftly towards me, I saw 
the Borrow r dale Bogle. My lantern had gone out, hut 
by this time my eyes had grown so accustomed to the 
midsummer twilight that I could clearly make out the 
details of the cavalier ' dress which Mounsey had de- 
scribed to us in the Market Square on the previous 


238 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Saturday. The wind, which was blowing strongly from 
the southwest, blew hack the folds of the short cloak 
it was wearing, and revealed the white shirt beneath and 
the long, thin hands, which seemed to grip fast hold of 
a cord slung over its shoulder, as though the bogle car- 
ried some burden. There was something so eerie in 
the noiseless way in which it steadily approached me 
that I would have given worlds to turn and rush down 
to my boat. I am ashamed to say that it cost me a hard 
struggle to move forward and meet this uncanny crea- 
ture; however, I did move slowly up to the path, and 
almost immediately the ghost stood stock-still. At this 
my courage rose a little. 

‘If it tries to escape I will pursue it/ I thought to 
myself, ‘and if it comes on, why, it must surely cross 
the plank bridge. I will stand here on the bank and 
see it face to face/ 

There had, during the last two or three days, been 
much rain, and the little beck which flows down bewixt 
Wall^ Crag and Falcon Crag had become a torrent. It 
came roaring and tumbling over its stony bed, while the 
wind moaned among the trees and heavy drops of rain 
began to fall. Still the ghost stood motionless, and 
still I kept guard by the bridge until I began to wish it 
would come on and end the tension of this waiting. At 
last it slowly glided towards me, and. I candidly own 
that my knees began to knock together. If only the 
mill had been nearer I should have called to Birkett 
and Mounsey merely for the comfort of their fleshly 
presence. For, alone in a desolate bit of country late 
at night, a ghost is not companionable. The creature, 
too, as it approached me more nearly, raised one of its 
long, bony hands and pointed a ghostly finger in my 
direction, at which, I knew not why, a cold shudder 
ran through me, and again the impulse to make for the 
boat was well-nigh irresistible. After all, what was to 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


239 


be gained by facing this Borrowdale Bogle? It was 
Henry Brownrigg who wanted to fathom the mystery. 
Why should I put myself to all this discomfort when the 
TJnder-Sheriff was the last man in the world I cared to 
oblige? 


CHAPTER XXV 


Audrey, although a brave girl, had been of late 
much out of health, and her nerves had by no means 
recovered from the shock of her mother’s death. Hence 
it was natural enough that, on the Wednesday night as 
she rowed across to Stable Hill, and sprang ashore with 
the provisions for John Radcliffe, she should be a prey 
to all sorts of terrors. As she crossed the field a sound 
of something breathing close by made her tremble from 
head to foot, but the breather proved to be only a cow; 
while another sound, which seemed horribly like foot- 
steps pursuing her, turned out to be nothing but one 
of the farm horses cropping the grass. How it was she 
could not tell, but the walk along the mule track, which 
had seemed quite short when she was with her uncle, 
seemed now in her loneliness tediously long. Whenever 
she looked up through the trees, the fir-fringed outlines 
of Walla Crag always towered above her, until she almost 
despaired of ever reaching Ashness woods with her 
heavy burden. She was just wondering to herself 
whether Tim G-risedale and Meg Mounsey had spread 
the alarm in Grange as to the bogle, when, to her hor- 
ror, she saw the figure of a man emerge from among 
the trees by the shore. She stood still in mortal terror. 
Perhaps he had not seen her? But, alas! there could 
be little doubt as to that, for he remained fixedly watch- 
ing her, and at length took up a position close to the 
foot-bridge which would compel her to pass him quite 
close unless, indeed, she turned back. But Audrey 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


241 


came of a stock which did not approve of turning hack, 
and, at last, taking her courage in both hands, she re- 
solved to go on, hoping to scare this fellow as she had 
scared the shepherd. Drawing herself to her full 
height, she raised a threatening hand and pointed away 
into the distance, hoping that the man would turn to 
see what she was indicating. Pie moved slightly, and, 
without looking at him, she made a dash for the bridge. 
Then instantly she felt strong arms thrown round her, 
and the man dragged her back from the plank. 

‘ So/ he cried, ‘you are no ghost, after all! What 
do you mean, you miscreant, by frightening the dales- 
f oik in this way? 9 

Then, in her rapture of relief, she turned and faced 
him; nay, she clung to him, sobbing. 

‘Oh, Mic! is it you, after all? I was so frightened, 
so dreadfully frightened ! 9 she cried. 

For a minute she recollected nothing, so exquisite was 
the sense that all her perils were over; that Michael, her 
best friend, her old playmate, could be trusted to bring 
her safety through all her difficulties. How tenderly, 
yet how closely, he held her! But he was absolutely 
silent, and all at once there flashed back into her mind 
the thought which her uncle had first suggested to her 
only a few evenings before. Could it indeed be that he 
loved her? Did that account for his formal manner 
that afternoon and for this strange silence now? It 
was well that she could not see his face, for the passion 
and pain in it would have terrified her. As it was, 
some instinct made her come to his help by gently free- 
ing herself from him, and turning to face the wind, he 
tore off his cravat like a man who was choking. 

‘ Did I startle you so much ? 9 she asked. 

He laughed wildly; it seemed so strange to him that 
she did not understand it was love for her that had 
driven all else from his mind, that it was the vehemence 
16 


242 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


of a passion long controlled bnt still existent which had 
surged up within him, and that the intolerable pain in 
his throat made speech for the moment impossible. 

But he quickly regained his self-mastery, and, turn- 
ing towards her again, wrapped her cloak about her and 
picked up the heavy bag she had let fall. 

‘ Where can I carry this for you?’ he said, speaking 
now very gently. Yet there was something in his tone 
which made her cry. tf Don’t, Audrey! Don’t! ’ he said 
pleadingly. ‘ It is an eerie place and a dark night for 
you to be walking about alone. Only let me help you. 
I will ask no questions.’ 

‘You are so good, Mic! ’ she said, instinctively fall- 
ing back to her old childish name for him. e But, 
though you do not ask, I must tell you the whole truth, 
for maybe this will bring you into trouble. Leave me 
to go on alone. I am on an errand to one of my own 
kin; for me it is a clear duty, but for you, I doubt folk 
would call it by a harsher name.’ 

Instantly he knew that the fugitive John Radcliffe 
must be sheltering in the neighbourhood. 

‘ I can guess your errand,’ he said. e I learnt by a 
letter from London to-day that there is a warrant out 
against your great-uncle; ’twas thought he had escaped 
to France, but I suppose he is sheltering here.’ 

‘I am glad you have guessed,’ said Audrey; ‘I am 
going now to him with food, and also to take him the 
news from Ireland. Now leave me, Mic. I know the 
way well, and it is not likely that I shall meet with 
anyone else.’ 

‘ Indeed, I wish I could feel so sure of that,’ said 
Michael, ‘ but Mr. Brownrigg has set Mounsey and an- 
other fellow to track this Borrowdale Bogle. Very 
likely, if he happens to know that Mr. Radcliffe is sus- 
pected of being concerned in the plot, he calls it a 
ghost-hunt, but in his heart he suspects that the ghost is 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


243 


a Jacobite. You had a very narrow escape to-night, 
for Mounsey and Birkett were on this very spot but a 
little while since, and at first took me for the ghost. 
They have gone on now to the mill. Where have you 
sheltered your uncle ? ’ 

‘ In Ashness woods, in our old place there/ 

* Then let us come here at once. I’ll row you in 
my boat as far as Barrow Bay, and then, if the coast 
is clear and Birkett still safely at Lowdore, we can 
climb the fell together/ 

Audrey was so much startled to hear of her lover’s 
precautions as to the ghost that she could not hesitate 
any more as to allowing Michael to run the risk of 
helping her uncle. 

Henry does know that there is a warrant out against 
Uncle Badcliffe,’ she said. ‘ Only the other night he 
came to search our house for him. That is why he is 
obliged to shelter among the hills/ 

‘ He will not be safe even there/ said Michael, lead- 
ing the way, as he spoke, down the wooded bank to Scarf 
Close Bay, where his boat was moored. ‘ The people at 
the farm have a story of seeing the bogle disappear into 
Ashness wood early one morning. We must somehow 
manage to get your uncle away, or assuredly the Under- 
Sheriff will get hold of him. How, we had best not 
talk, for water carries the sound of voices as nothing 
else does. Lie down in the bottom of the boat and 
I will cover you with my cloak; the bag for your 
head to rest on. So! How, I’ll soon row to Barrow 
Bay.’ 

Audrey crept down into the friendly shelter of the 
boat with a restful sense that the worst was over. Then, 
too, there was something natural to her in taking part 
in an adventure with Michael. It brought back the 
days of their childhood so vividly. Yet, although as 
she nestled down in the stern she could almost have 


244 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


fancied herself a child again, Michael had, on the other 
hand, developed in a curious way. She found herself 
looking up to him as though he had been some years 
older than herself. All too soon they reached Barrow, 
and Michael, having carefully reconnoitred and found 
the coast clear, came back to help her from the boat, 
and swinging the bag across his shoulder, walked with 
her to John Radcliffe’s sheltering-plaee. 

‘ I ought to tell you/ he said, when they found them- 
selves in the wood, ‘ that in the letter I had to-day from 
Mistress Mary Denham she tells me that Mr. J ohn Rad- 
cliffe is none other than the Mr. Calverley to whom 
Father Noel gave me a letter of introduction in London. 
I met him many times, never of course guessing that 
he was akin to you. That, however, doubtless explains 
the curious attraction he always had for me/ 

Those last words slipped from him inadvertently. 
Audrey blushed, and was glad that he could not see her 
face. 

‘Who is Mistress Mary Denham? ’ she asked. 

‘ A very great friend of mine/ he said warmly. ‘ The 
niece of Sir Wilfrid’s friend, with whom we stayed in 
London/ 

Now, ‘ friend ’ was a word which, like the word e ser- 
vant/ bore in those days more than one meaning. 
Audrey wondered whether, after all, Michael was this 
lady’s lover. She ought, no doubt, to have welcomed 
this idea as a relief from the notion that he had loved 
her and was still Henry’s rival. But, for some unex- 
plained reason, she did not welcome it. It somehow 
disturbed her. 

‘ I am your oldest friend/ she said, laughing a little. 
‘I believe I could find it in my heart to be jealous of 
this fine lady in London.’ 

e You do not know me, if you can speak like that/ he 
said, hurt by her tone. c She is to me like an elder 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


245 


sister, whereas you — you * he broke off abruptly, 

choking with emotion. 

‘ I don’t understand/ said Audrey, hut the tears in 
her voice belied the words; she was beginning to under- 
stand only too well. 

‘You never did understand me/ said Michael, re- 
proachfully. ‘You thought when I came hack from 
Cambridge as a man that we could once more he com- 
rades as when we were children in Borrowdale. You 
played with me that time at Baby Castle; at least it was 
play to you. Take care of that branch! ’ 

He turned to hold it hack for her, and felt two hot 
tears fall on his hand. 

‘ Audrey! ’ he cried, dismayed to think of the confes- 
sion into which he had been betrayed; ‘forgive me! I 
meant to have kept silence. I have tried my very ut- 
most to avoid you. All I ask now is to help you in 
this affair with Mr. John Badcliffe. Since Mr. Brown- 
rigg can’t help you in this I have at least the right to 
shield you from danger. How they could let you come 
all this way alone at night I can’t conceive.’ 

‘ My grandfather liked it ill enough/ said Audrey, 
regaining her composure with an effort, ‘ but there was 
no one else. Father Noel can scarcely put his foot to 
the ground, and old Duncan — the only other person 
who knows — was far too rheumatic to hobble all this 
way even had he known of the hiding-place. I don’t 
deserve it, Mic, but I think God sent you to take care 
of me.’ 

Her tone, and the humility of the words, brought 
him back to his hearings. Once more he became his 
best self — manly, chivalrous, and self-forgetful. He 
began to discuss with her the best way of getting the 
fugitive to the sea-coast, and presently Audrey gave the 
cry which she had agreed on as the signal with her 
uncle, and they heard his low whistle in response. In 


246 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


a few minutes more they had gained the cave, and J ohn 
Radcliffe sprang up from his bed of heather and ling to 
greet Audrey. He had been reading by the light of a 
small lantern carefully screened from view by a boulder; 
but when he saw that his niece had someone with her 
a sudden look of terror passed over his face. 

‘Who is this?* he exclaimed. ‘How is it that you 
are not alone? ’ 

‘ Hncle,’ cried Audrey, ‘ you are in no danger; this is 
Michael Derwent, who accidentally came across me near 
Scarf Close Bay/ 

‘ What! Mr. Derwent? ’ exclaimed the refugee, look- 
ing sharply into the face of Audrey’s companion. 

Michael stood just outside the cave, and the lantern 
clearly revealed every feature of John Radcliffe’s face. 
He saw surprise, perplexity, doubt, and misgiving im- 
printed on it; then, at last, came a sort of mischievous 
amusement, strange enough when one considered his 
position. 

‘ Come in, Mr. Derwent,’ he said, holding out his 
hand and giving him a cordial welcome. ‘ I know you 
had your suspicions of me the night we last met, when 
that fool Enderby came in with his talk about St. Ger- 
mains and his hints about the lemon. You were an 
honourable guest, and went away and kept silence. I 
know you are one who can be trusted.’ 

‘ Sir,’ said Michael, ‘ I am not like Mr. Brownrigg, in 
an official position, and am not minded to go hunting 
the brother of one who has always been good to me. 
But I must tell you frankly that I abhor your plots and 
will have no hand in helping you unless you promise to 
leave England as soon as possible.’ 

John Radcliffe laughed good-humouredly. 

‘ Well spoken, my boy,’ he said. ‘ And, as for me, I 
abhor your views, but I’m hanged if I won’t stand by 
you when King James comes to his own again and the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


247 


faith is once more established in England. You are 
just the sort to go to the stake for some trumpery 
opinion, but curse me if I would let the best Catholic in 
the land roast you. Come, sit down and let us sup 
together. You have had a long walk. What’s in that 
bag, Audrey?’ 

‘ I have brought you fresh food, uncle,’ she said, sit- 
ting down by him on the heather, ‘but there is news 
which first you will want to hear. King William has 
defeated the Catholic army in a great battle on the 
banks of the Boyne, and King James has deserted the 
Irish and has fled back to France.’ 

John Kadcliffe’s face fell; he muttered a deep oath. 

‘ That’s bad hearing,’ he said. ‘ It means that all is 
lost. Oh, what a miserable thing it is to have for king 
and leader a man w r ho thinks first of saving his own 
skin! Your Dutchman lacks the fine manner of the 
Stuarts, but, curse him, he is at any rate a brave soldier 
and a born leader. Well, my pretty niece, the game is 
over. I throw up the sponge. And now the question 
is. How am I to get to the sea-coast and make my way 
to Ireland or to France ? ’ 

‘ It must be done quickly,’ said Michael. ‘ Indeed I 
think we had best shift your hiding-place to-night, sir,’ 
and then together they told him of the serious risk he 
ran of being discovered by the Under-Sheriff. 

‘ Mounsey and Birkett watch the mule track from 
Keswick to Borrowdale,’ said Audrey, ‘ and we could 
scarcely escape through Grange, but surely by boat we 
might safely manage it. Pursuit would be difficult.’ 

‘ You must somehow start by to-morrow night, at 
latest, for Workington,’ said Michael. ‘ There you will 
easily be able to take ship. With your permission, sir, 
I. will go to-night to Lord’s Island and talk things over 
with Father Koel.’ 

John Radcliffe listened in silence to this suggestion; 


248 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


a sense of shame stole over him — shame such as he had 
never before experienced. He looked across the shallow 
cave to the place where Michael sat, his fine, expressive 
face clearly outlined against the grey rock; a boyish face 
still, though bearing signs of that inner conflict without 
which no really strong character can he developed. 

Should he, as Father Noel urged him, own the truth? 
The words trembled upon his lips, hut then he reflected 
that Michael’s indignation against the unknown father 
who had deserted him had been expressed in no meas- 
ured terms in London — that he had then been only 
thirsting to discover the man for the sake of avenging 
his mother. He dared not own the truth now, for 
might not Michael refuse to help him in his escape? 
Might he not even, in his just wrath, denounce him to 
the authorities? 

There was silence in the cave for some minutes; both 
Audrey and her uncle instinctively watched Michael, 
who was evidently deep in thought. Outside the rain 
pattered down steadily, in the way truly characteristic 
of Cumberland. 

‘I have it/ said Michael at length. ‘ This rain of 
the last few days is all in our favour, for the Derwent 
is fuller than I have ever known it. My plan is this. 
Let us take Mr. Kadcliffe to-night to our hiding-place 
in the Happy Valley; that is a place where not a soul 
but ourselves is likely to go. Hidden there among the 
brushwood, he will be safe for twenty-four hours, and 
we will come to-morrow night, landing opposite Man- 
esty meads, and get him safely into our boat. Then 
we can all three row the length of Derwentwater, and 
at the outlet at the further end, where the Derwent 
flows towards Bassenthwaite, I will to-morrow moor one 
of the St. Herbert’s Isle boats, and will stow away in it 
a disguise of some sort for Mr. Badcliffe. He and I 
together can then row to Bassenthwaite, where he can 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


249 


be set down well on his way to Workington by dawn, 
while yon will have quietly rowed back alone the short 
distance to Lord’s Island.’ 

‘ Why not take the one boat the whole distance?’ 
said J ohn Radcliffe. 

‘ It will be better for Audrey to go home,’ he replied; 
‘the risk would be less for all of us. Besides, it will 
be light by the time I can return, for, though we shall 
rush down the Derwent easily enough with the current, 
it will be stiff work getting the boat back. If she were 
there with me, then suspicion would be roused, but that 
I should be out alone in one of Sir Wilfrid’s boats will 
surprise nobody. It is well known that I go out fishing 
at all hours.’ 

‘ Well done, Mr. Derwent. ‘ You have the brain of 
a conspirator, or shall we say of a statesman? ’ said John 
Radcliffe, laughing. ‘ I would we could reckon you on 
our side, for we need men of your sort. Half of them 
are feather-pates like young Enderby, who betrayed us 
to you last month in my chambers.’ 

‘ It is quite possible that Father Noel will have some 
better scheme,’ said Michael. ‘ He is a wonderful man 
for seeing every move in the game. But, unless you 
hear to the contrary, expect us to-morrow night at 
. eleven o’clock.’ 

} ‘But, Michael,’ said Audrey, who had listened in 
silence to the arrangements, ‘ you are taking all the 
risk on yourself. It is not fair. What is my Uncle 
Radcliffe to you? ’ 

‘ He is just that — your uncle,’ said Michael, quietly, 
‘ and the brother of Sir Nicholas, to whose kindness I 
owe much.’ 

John Radcliffe seemed about to speak, but thought 
better of it. As a man of the world he was ready to 
doubt the possibility of anyone undertaking so risky a 
piece of work when there was no hope of personal gain, 


250 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


but however things turned out he could not see that in 
this matter Michael could be the gainer. He was forced 
to believe that the fellow acted really out of a chivalrous 
desire to help the girl he loved but could not wed. The 
only thing he could gain was the brief satisfaction of 
baffling the schemes of his rival, the Under-Sheriff, and 
a man would scarcely run the risk of being thrown into 
prison as aiding and abetting the Jacobites for such a 
momentary triumph as that. 

‘ Well, let us eat and drink! ’ he said with a careless 
laugh, ‘ for to-morrow who can say what may befall us? 
Mr. Derwent, here’s to our next merry meeting ! 9 and 
he drained a cup of the claret which old Duncan had 
stowed away in Audrey’s bag. 

Then, having done their best to obliterate all traces 
of his stay in the cave, they tramped on through the 
woods above high Lowdore and Shepherd’s Crag, until 
they gained the tiny wooded glen hidden away by 
Grange Fell, which, as children, they had called the 
Happy Valley. At the southeastern part of this tiny 
dale, not far from a brawling mountain stream, there 
was a sheltered nook, where, long ago, they used to hide. 
They had to come right down to the stream before they 
could find it in the dim light; but Michael had always 
been good at making landmarks, and he had only to 
stand at a certain bend of the stream and face the east 
to discover the exact nook he wanted. 

‘ Here it is,’ he cried, ‘ up this bank to the bent crab- 
tree; then there will be a thorn-bush just to your left, 
and higher up still an old bent yew. Close beneath 
that is a rock which will give you shelter from the rain; 
but beware that you do not stir from the wood after 
dawn, for you are near to Grange, and might come 
across the dales-folk.’ 

J ohn Radcliff e promised to be most cautious, aud they 
left him as soon as possible, for, judging it unsafe to 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


251 


risk passing the mill, they were forced to climb the fell 
once more and tramp all round the way they had come 
over the crags and through the woods towards Ashness 
Farm. Nor could they afford to take the walk easily, 
being in terror lest the dawn should overtake them. It 
was then, as they hurried along in the drenching rain, 
that Audrey began to realise what a man Michael had 
become. Never once did he let her feel that it was 
aught but the most natural thing in the world that they 
two should be out together alone in that wild night, 
nor did he again in any way allude to himself or his 
own affairs. He talked of their plans for the rescue of 
Mr. Kadcliffe; he even made himself talk a little of 
Henry Brownrigg, a sort of loyalty to the absent lover 
goading him on, though the words half choked him. 

But Audrey, much as she looked up to him, could 
not then realise all that it cost him to pilot her through 
the dark wood, to feel her clinging to his arm, and to 
take her up and carry her over Barrow Beck when, worn 
out with fatigue, the rushing water made her turn giddy 
as she stood on the slippery stones. Later on she knew, 
but now she only felt a childlike gratitude to him for 
proving so trusty a helper. 

At last they had scrambled down to Derwentwater, 
and, half dead with fatigue, she lay down once more in 
the boat and let Michael wrap his cloak round her and 
row her back to Lord’s Island. Here Father Noel and 
old Duncan sat up waiting for her, and, after hurried 
explanations, she was glad to steal away to bed, leaving 
Michael to settle the details of the escape with the old 
priest. 

‘Did Mr. Kadcliffe tell you nothing?’ asked Father 
Noel, looking eagerly and hopefully into the young 
man’s grave face. 

‘ There was nothing to tell,’ said Michael. ‘ I should 
in any case have recognised him, but oddly enough this 


252 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


very day I had a letter telling me that James Calverley 
was but an assumed name, and that a warrant was out 
against Mr. Radcliffe.’ 

The poor old priest turned his head away in bitter 
disappointment. Surely, he thought, John Radcliffe 
might have availed himself of what seemed a heaven- 
sent opportunity of owning his son and heir. 

‘ Mr. Radcliffe is a selfish man’* he said. ‘ Truly I 
think he deserves to he trapped by the Under-Sheriff. 
Why do you risk your safety for him? ’ 

‘ I fear I don’t think much of him/ said Michael, 
colouring, ‘but it seems about the last chance I shall 
ever have of serving Audrey.’ 

All at once, without any warning, his strength gave 
way. The unspoken sympathy, the real comprehension 
of Father Noel, proved too much for him. Exhausted 
by the long struggle of the night, he buried his face in 
his arms and began to sob. 

1 Poor boy,’ said the old priest kindly, ‘ life has been 
hard on you. Yet you are not the first who has had to 
stand by in silence and see the life of his best beloved 
wrecked by a mistaken marriage. Besides, there is 
room for hope even now. Already the marriage has 
been twice postponed. Who knows that it will ever 
take place? ’ 

‘ The banns were asked on Sunday in St. Kentigern’s,’ 
said Michael, steadying his voice with an effort. 

He was bitterly ashamed of having broken down, for 
he had been reared among the dales-folk of Cumberland, 
who bear the extremity of mental or bodily pain and 
make no sign. But Lucy Carleton’s mother had been 
of Welsh origin, and there was much of the emotional 
Keltic nature in Michael. 

( You see, sir,’ he continued, ‘ it does not need much 
imagination to picture things as they are from Henry 
Brownrigg’s point of view. He is moving heaven and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


253 


earth to get hold of the heir to the Goldrill estate, Mr. 
John Radcliffe. When he has got him safely ont of 
the way Audrey will be the heiress, and everything will 
be at his disposal when once they are married/ 

‘ Yes; no doubt that is his scheme/ said Father Noel, 
and then he fell into a fit of musing. It was terrible 
to him to know that the true heir was actually talking 
to him yet that he was absolutely powerless to end the 
great wrong which had been done to him. To break 
the secrecy of the confessional was, of course, out of the 
question, yet the sense of the horrible injustice which 
he had silently to witness almost maddened him. It 
was in vain that he reminded himself of the far worse 
secrets which had often been confided to priests; the 
most hideous conspiracy, the most horrible murder, 
would not just now seem to him so intolerable a load 
as this cowardice of John Radcliffe and the prospect 
of seeing Michael and Audrey, the two he had known 
and loved ever since their childhood,- sacrificed to a man 
so tyrannical and narrow as Henry Brownrigg. 

As a Catholic, he would have felt it his duty in other 
circumstances to urge upon Audrey the marriage with 
Mr. Salkeld, knowing that he would probably bring her 
over to his faith, but his kindly heart and his sense of 
fairness inclined him more and more to see things from 
Michael's side. If anything could make up to the boy 
for all these years of ignominy and loneliness it would 
be such a marriage. But he sighed as he thought of it, 
for indeed nothing seemed less likely to come about. 

‘ Don't give up hope, lad,' he said, laying a kindly 
hand on Michael's shoulder. ‘We Borrowdale folk know 
well enough that it's often the dark dawn that makes 
the fair day; while with bright sunshine at six in the 
morning you'll as likely as not have rain by noon. By 
the bye, this downpour will be somewhat rough on Mr. 
Radcliffe.' 


254 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ Yes, but ’twill fill the Derwent, and that is all in 
onr favour/ said Michael. And therewith he fell to 
discussing his idea for the escape, while Father Noel 
groaned aloud to think that his knee made it impossible 
for him even to hobble down as far as the boat. He 
longed sorely to be able to lend a hand, and, above all, 
he longed for a chance of once more urging John Rad- 
cliffe to own the truth. However, it was clearly impos- 
sible for him to attempt anything of the sort; he could 
only have been a hindrance and a danger to the others. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


‘ Well, Birkett,’ said the Under-Sheriff, as the man 
appeared on Thursday morning at his room in Keswick, 
‘ have you traced the bogle yet? ’ 

‘ Hoa, sir, but us thought us had ’en by the heels last 
night, nigh upon eleven o’clock. Howiver, it was, arter 
all, nowt but Mr. Derwent, who had rowed across from 
Herbert’s Isle.’ 

‘Mr. Derwent?’ said the Under- Sheriff, sitting up 
with an expectant look. ‘ And pray what was he doing 
at that time of night? ’ 

‘ Why, sir, he had a dark lantern wid ’en, and, sure 
as I stan’ here, we was mortal flayte, thinkin’ him to be 
the bogle. But he just laughed and called out to 
Mounsey that he was gettin’ moths off the tree-trunks. 
And, Lor’ bless you, sir, he verily was doin’ it and 
a-puttin’ ’em in boxes in a daft fashion, as though the 
plaguy beasts was worth money. You know, sir, there 
still is folk that say he is a changelin’ and no’ a’together 
canny. Dickon over at Herbert’s Isle, he always said 
when he first set eyes on him he could hardly bring 
himself to touch the crittur for fear it should bewitch 
him.’ 

‘Pooh! there’s nothing uncanny about him,’ said the 
Under-Sheriff; ‘and as to being daft, why, man, his 
brains are only too sharp. Depend upon it, he was up 
to no good last night. He trapped you as well as the 
moths. They were just a blind. Look you, Birkett, 
hurry off to the best place for viewing the whole of 


256 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Derwentwater. Luckily it is clear enough after the 
rain. When you see a boat leaving Herbert’s Isle, 
watch the direction it takes, and when Mr. Derwent 
comes ashore, just quietly follow him, taking care that 
he does not see that you are dogging his steps. Bring 
me word later on in the day as to his movements.’ 

‘ How,’ he exclaimed to himself as his messenger 
withdrew, ‘ I have at last got the clue I wanted. And 
to think Michael Derwent is embroiled as well! That 
is a stroke of luck I had not looked for. Depend upon 
it, he has been hand and glove with that traitor John 
Radcliffe all these months in London. I see it all now! 
That was the meaning of his guarded answer the other 
day when he spoke of the state of the country. The 
fellow would easily deceive Sir Wilfrid Lawson, who is 
too good-natured and too much of a joker to suspect 
sinister designs in those he has to deal with. I shouldn’t 
wonder if the fellow is all the time a Papist, though he 
does put in an appearance still at Crosthwaite Church. 
He would be ready enough to change his views to curry 
favour with Father Noel and Sir Nicholas, and so pro- 
mote his designs upon Audrey. Well, thank heaven, I 
have netted him now, or very nearly! And next month 
we shall be safely married.’ 

He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. It became 
more and more clear to him that the bogle was none 
other than John Radcliffe, the Jacobite, and Michael 
doubtless had been employed by Sir Nicholas to carry 
food to the fugitive in his hiding-place. No one would 
be better fitted for such a task, since he knew every inch 
of the country around. 

Meanwhile Birkett waited the whole morning, and 
no boat put off from St. Herbert’s Isle. At length, in 
the afternoon, when, what with the heat of the sun and 
his wakeful night, sleep had almost overpowered him, 
he descried a boat rowing slowly northward. Hasten- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


257 


ing down from the little eminence he had chosen for 
his watch-tower, he made his way to the point towards 
which the boat was steering, and was just near enough 
to see Michael mooring it in a bend of the riyer Der- 
went, a little to the northwest of the place where the 
Greta flows into it. Having secured the boat, Michael 
wandered off towards some trees at a little distance, 
where he went through a series of operations which 
utterly mystified his unknown watcher. He seemed to 
he smearing the tree-trunks with something sticky, and 
the sight made the superstitious Birkett shiver, for 
this distinctly savoured of the black art. Could the 
Borrowdale foundling be a wizard? Cautiously creep- 
ing after him, Birkett examined the mysterious tree- 
trunks and scratched his head with an air of hopeless 
bewilderment. Altogether he counted twelve trees 
bearing the mystic mark. Had he dared to think this 
curious and uncanny rite was anything so simple, he 
would have said that the trees had been just daubed 
with treacle or sugar. His imagination rose to such a 
height, however, that he was convinced the letter ‘ w * 
was traced upon one tree, and, full of glee at this great 
and brilliant discovery, he lost no time in following 
Michael at a discreet distance. Michael, having some 
spare time on his hands, crossed the fields slowly in the 
hot July sun and made his way to Hye Hill, to visit his 
old Quaker friend. As for Birkett, he lay in a shady 
nook on the grass not far off, and waited for a couple of 
hours, then tracked his man to a house in the Market 
Square, and returned to his master with a glowing ac- 
count of his discovery. 

c Mr. Derwent he now in the house of old Snoggles, 
the fiddler/ he said, ‘ where I reckon he is safe to stay 
for some time. Do you think, sir, the letter stands for 
“ watched” and is to warn the bogle ? ? 

‘ Maybe/ said Henry, with a smile. ‘But, anyhow, 
17 


2 5 8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Matt, go on with your watching. I think we shall trap 
the bogle at last, and I myself shall join to-night in the 
hunt. Go now and have a tankard of ale at the Wool- 
pack, but since the weather is hot, see that yon sit on 
the bench ontside the inn and keep an eye on Zinogle’s 
door. Then, when Mr. Derwent comes ont, track him 
once more, and be back here again by nine o’clock to 
tell me of his movements.’ 

Matt, mystified, but much elated by his success and 
the praise of the Under- Sheriff, bowed himself out, and 
Henry Brownrigg began to consider what other men 
beside Birkett and the constable he had better take 
with him for the evening’s hunt. Was it possible that 
the letter traced on the tree stood for Whitehaven or 
Workington ? And was the boat expressly moored 
there for John Radeliffe’s use after dark? 

Meanwhile Michael was leaning back in Zinogle’s 
high-backed chair, forgetting his anxiety for a while 
as his old friend played the airs he most loved on his 
fiddle. He had come in tired and despondent, but it 
was impossible to listen long to Zinogle’s cheerful music 
without becoming imbued with hope. And, as the old 
man played the melody known as Lady Frances NevilVs 
Delight, there floated back to Michael’s mind the re- 
membrance of Father Noel’s words about the dark dawn 
bringing the fair day and the duty of eternal hope. 
Hope, too, was the idea which, from his childhood, the 
old fiddler had tried to imbue him with. Was he al- 
ways to go on hoping, he wondered, and reflected, with 
a rueful smile, that, after all, hope was a diet upon 
which a man was apt to grow lean. Well, at least there 
was something to be done for Audrey that night. He 
was the one man in the world who could and would 
protect her now, and there was something stimulating 
in the thought that even Henry Brownrigg could not 
rob him of that privilege. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


259 


‘ Bravo, Zinogle! ’ he said, as the old man laid down 
his fiddle at last, ‘ yon always drive the devil ont of me 
with your music. Promise me this, old friend, if ever 
I should be in trouble, don’t forget me, hut come to me 
with your fiddle under your arm; then, even with death 
staring me in the face, I should get some comfort and 
pleasure.’ 

* Trouble! ’ said the German lightly. ‘ Never think 
of it beforehand, hoy. If it comes, why, you can be 
trusted to hear it like a man; hut till then hope’s your 
mainstay. And as for coming to you, I should like to 
see anything that would hinder me! For, as you very 
well know, in this mad, topsy-turvy world you and my 
pipe and my fiddle are the only friends left me.’ 

And, taking up the violin once more, he played right 
cheerfully the old tune of ‘ Love will find out a way.’ 

When that was ended, Michael, bidding his godfather 
farewell, left the house and the little town and wan- 
dered on to Castle Hill. The sun had just set, and 
Skiddaw and Latrigg were bathed in an unearthly radi- 
ance more beautiful than the colours of the opal. He 
stood for many minutes looking at that wonderful view, 
so familiar and so dear to him. There were the fells over 
which he and Audrey had climbed only a few hours 
before; there was the dear old Castle Crag, with its wil- 
derness of trees guarding the entrance to Borrowdale, 
and in the background his beloved Glaramara, with its 
rugged heights all roseate in the evening glow, while far 
away, yet clearly to he seen, were Great End and Seaw- 
fell Pike, recalling many a day of adventure with Father 
Noel for his companion. Dearer than all, there was 
Derwentwater itself, lying like a silver shield down be- 
fore him, with Lord’s Island and the old house, and a 
light already in one of the windows, which shone like 
a pale primrose in contrast with the ruddy gold and 
crimson of the sunset. 


26 o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


He looked down at it sadly, thinking how soon 
Audrey would have left it for ever — left it for that very 
doubtful happiness of being mistress of Millbeck Hall. 
And yet they still preached hope to him! Both Father 
Noel and old Zinogle always harped on that one string. 
The utmost, as it seemed, that he could now hope for 
was to he some protection to her on this eventful night; 
beyond that night no ray shone to lighten his darkness. 
He glanced with a sigh across the still water to the 
place where he knew his boat was moored, and then out 
beyond to the gleam of mellow light which showed 
where Bassenthwaite lay. By the time he reached that 
place in the early hours of the night, he and J ohn Rad- 
cliffe would be alone, and Audrey would be safely once 
more on the island. 

With sad eyes he turned away and went down the 
hill, until, finding a fallen tree-trunk which had been 
well baked by the long summer day’s sunshine, he 
stretched himself on it and tried to spend the rest of 
his waiting-time in sleep. What were those words about 
hope in the Two Gentlemen of Verona? Just as his 
eyelids grew heavy they darted hack into his mind: 

1 Hope is a lover’s staff! Walk hence with that, 

And manage it against despairing thoughts.’ 

And it was just about that time that Matt Birkett 
returned to the Under-Sheriff with the news that Mr. 
Derwent had stood for some time on the top of Castle 
Hill, as though watching for something, and that he 
now lay down at the foot of the hill, to all appearance 
asleep. 

‘ Go and sup with all speed at the Woolsack,’ said 
Henry Brownrigg, ‘ and he back here in half an hour. 
Our bogle-hunt must begin.’ 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Whek Michael awoke it was quite dusk. The sleep 
had greatly refreshed him, and, as he strode across the 
fields to Stable Hills Farm, his spirits rose and he felt 
eager for the night’s adventure. Keeping a little to 
the south of the boathouse, he waited in the place that 
had been agreed upon until he saw, in the fast-deepen- 
ing gloom, the light in the window above the great 
door, extinguished. It had been kindled in the Lord’s 
Island house early in the evening as a sign that all was 
well and that Audrey would come as arranged, and now 
that it was out, he knew that she must be getting into 
the boat, and that in a few minutes she would be with 
him. His heart throbbed fast when, out of the gloom, 
he saw the outline of the dark hull approaching, and 
heard the sound of her muffled oars close by. In an- 
other moment she was at the shore, and, leaping into 
the boat, he pushed off again, taking the second pair 
of oars that had been provided and giving her a whis- 
pered greeting. 

‘ The other boat is all right? ’ she inquired. 

‘ Yes, safely moored near Portinscale, and stowed 
away in it I have put some old clothes that Dickon was 
keeping for a scarecrow, and a ragged smock which 
would make any king look like a clown.’ 

Audrey laughed beneath her breath, and they rowed 
steadily on, taking care to give the mill of Lowdore as 
wide a berth as might be, lest Mounsey should descry 
them. 


262 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Now, to find the entrance to the Derwent at the south 
end of Derwentwater is no easy matter even by day- 
light, for the marshy ground, with its wilderness of 
reeds, its narrow channels, which often prove mere culs- 
de-sac , and its absence of landmarks, is bewildering. 
But by night the task is hard indeed, and, well as 
Michael knew the country, he was sorely baffled in the 
midnight gloom. At last, however, they struck the 
right channel, and, after that, every bend being familiar 
to them both, they got on easily enough, mooring the 
boat on the opposite side of the river to Manesty meads, 
and then setting off across the wet grass towards the 
entrance to the Happy Valley. 

The night was clear and the stars were shining 
brightly, so that they could plainly distinguish the out- 
lines of the craggy hills which surrounded it, and, 
guided by the stream, they walked on swiftly, Audrey 
springing lightly over the boggy ground in the raiment 
of the ghost and thankful not to have heavy skirts trail- 
ing after her in the darkness. 

‘ Ah, Mic! ? she exclaimed, as he helped her over a bit 
of ground that had become a swamp since the heavy 
rain, ‘ two is better than one. I should have been in a 
panic of terror many a time this night had it not been 
for you/ 

‘ Thank God I am here, then! * said Michael. ‘ It 
makes me shudder even now to think how nearly Matt 
Birkett caught you the other night/ 

‘ Ah! and it was not only of human beings I was in 
terror/ said Audrey; ‘ I kept on thinking how it would 
be if the mock bogle and the real bogle were to come 
face to face/ 

He laughed softly at this idea, and then they both 
started violently, for a screech-owl flew past them with 
its melancholy, foreboding cry. 

‘Well, if we meet nothing more dangerous than 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


263 


screech-owls and bogles we shall carry through our 
night’s work easily enough/ said Michael, cheerfully. 
f Don’t you think you might give the call now? ’ 

They paused by the stream, while her clear, yet soft 
cry sounded out into the night, and was echoed by John 
Radcliffe in his shelter under the old yew tree. He 
came striding down the hill, and, leaping the stream, 
gave them an eager greeting. 

‘ Is all well? ’ he inquired. 

‘ Yes, your boat awaits you,’ they replied. 

c That’s good hearing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘ I should 
have rotted had I been mowed up under that old tree 
any longer. Talk about King Charles in the oak, he 
was lapped in luxury compared with me! And, when 
at last the deluge ended, I didn’t dare come out of that 
apology for an ark, since a boy saw fit to feed his flock of 
sheep at the other end of the valley. Well, little ghost, 
how many rustics have you scared on the way here? ’ 

‘ We have not seen a soul,’ said Audrey, blithely. 
‘ Here, sir, is a packet of money which my grandfather 
sends you with his best wishes for your safe journeying 
to France.’ 

* That’s good of him,’ said John Radcliffe. * Mr. 
Derwent, did you remember the disguise? ’ 

‘ Yes, sir,’ said Michael; ‘ I have robbed a scarecrow 
in your behalf.’ 

This greatly tickled the Jacobite’s fancy, and they 
had some difficulty in making him hush his laughter 
as they came down once more to the winding river and 
got into the boat. 

* Give me the oars,’ he said, ‘ and Audrey, do you 
steer. I shall be glad to stretch my limbs once more.’ 

And then silence fell on the party, while swiftly, with 
the current in their favour, they rowed down to the 
reedy entrance to Derwentwater and out on to the broad 
expanse. So still was the night that Audrey could see 


264 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


the stars reflected in the water as in a mirror, while the 
gloomy heights of Maiden-moor and Catbells loomed 
darkly npon the western shore. The only sign that' 
any other human beings besides themselves existed in 
the neighbourhood lay in the twinkling rushlight in 
the children’s room on St. Herbert’s Isle and the light 
in her grandfather’s bedchamber on Lord’s Island. 

The two men had kept on their dark coats for fear 
their white shirt-sleeves should betray them to any 
chance watcher, but Michael, heated with rowing, had 
thrown off his hat, so that the night breeze gently blew 
back the long, dark hair of his peruke. She fancied 
that his face gleamed curiously white in the dim star- 
light, and once, when a sudden flicker of summer light- 
ning illuminated everything for a minute, she saw that 
there were lines of pain round his lips and in his eyes a 
look which made her think of the eyes of a wounded 
stag she had once seen in Borrowdale. That was years 
ago, when Michael had first gone to Cambridge, and she 
remembered that it was her lover who had been out 
deer-stalking and that the wounded stag had fallen a 
victim to his gun. She shivered a little. Was it be- 
cause the parting was so near at hand that he bore that 
look? 

There was another quiver of sheet-lightning ; this 
time he stopped rowing for a minute, glanced round to 
see the opening to the Derwent, and whispered to her 
to steer to the left. Against the dancing light Skiddaw 
and Latrigg rose majestically, while below, in silvery 
brightness, the Greta flowed into the Derwent, and all 
the reeds and rushes along the banks shimmered and 
sparkled like the spears of a great army. 

‘ The current is strong; keep well to the left, close to 
the rushes,’ said Michael. c Now we are almost there; 
I moored her to that willow round the next bend. Ship 
your oars, sir,’ he added, glancing back at the Jacobite. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


265 


John Radcliffe silently obeyed. Audrey, with both 
hands on the tiller, kept her eyes fixed on the willow 
tree, and already they had caught sight of the moored 
boat, when suddenly there was a blaze of light from a 
lantern held by someone half hidden by the reeds; 
strong hands clutched their boat and made it fast, while, 
with an effort which nearly capsized them, John Rad- 
cliffe was dragged ashore by three men, who flung them- 
selves upon him. The bearer of the lantern stept for- 
ward and touched him on the shoulder. 

‘ In the King’s name! ’ he said, and Audrey, shrink- 
ing down into her place in the stern, knew that it was 
her lover. 

She felt a hand on hers and, lifting her face, saw 
Michael stooping over her. 

‘ Quick,’ he whispered, almost lifting her onto the 
seat he had quitted. ‘ Take the oars and row home. 
‘ I’ll cut the rope while they are getting me ashore.’ 

She was like one stunned, and it was only under his 
compulsion that she obeyed, while he, with ears sharp- 
ened by anxiety, was listening to the confused babel of 
voices. 

c There be two other gentlemen in the boat, sir,’ cried 
Birkett. ‘ Be us to mak’ ’em all prisoner?’ 

Henry Brownrigg turned, having been too much oc- 
cupied in seeing the constable bind John Radcliffe’s 
arms to his sides to heed anything else. 

‘ To be sure, Birkett,’ he said. ‘ So, Mr. Derwent, 
you have changed your views! Drag him out, men. 
What’s the good of resisting, gentlemen; we are five of 
us here and are bound to take you? ’ 

As he spoke he hung the lantern on a branch of the 
willow and stept closer to the boat, from the bows of 
which Michael was struggling with his would-be captors 
on the bank. 

He had unsheathed his knife and was desperately 


266 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


sawing at the cord with which the men had secured the 
prow. Birkett, only, divined what he was about, and 
gripped his arm like a vise, whereupon Michael shifted 
his knife to the other hand, gave the fellow a touch 
with the point, which made him start back for a mo- 
ment, and then in triumph severed the rope. 

‘ Pull off! ’ he cried to Audrey, and at the same mo- 
ment he took his assailants utterly by surprise by yield- 
ing and leaping on shore so suddenly that he sent three 
of them sprawling onto the ground. 

But Henry Brownrigg was not to he so easily baffled; 
he gripped fast hold of the boat before the rower had 
had time to get fairly off. 

‘Hold there ! 9 he cried. ‘You don’t escape us now, 
my man! Get up, you fellows, and make that other 
gentleman prisoner/ 

He broke off, for Michael put a hand on his shoulder 
and said in a tone which could not reach the others: 

‘ Sir, do you not see that it is Mr. Radcliffe’s niece in 
disguise? For God’s sake, nay, for her sake and your 
own, let her row home and say no more.’ 

For a minute the Under-Sheriff was struck dumb; 
then a look of fury crossed his face; he ground his teeth 
with rage. 

‘ Youdale and Birkett, come and bind this villain be- 
fore he does any more mischief,’ he exclaimed, and the 
men stepped forward, glad enough to pinion one who 
had given them so much trouble. 

‘ Tighter! ’ cried the Under- Sheriff, pleased to see his 
enemy wince a little as the cord cut into his wrists. 

Just then there came a sound like a stifled sob from 
the river. 

‘ Henry, he only came to protect me! ’ cried Audrey, 
pleadingly, and at the piteous, girlish voice the con- 
stable and his helpers started in amaze and stared 
stupidly at the figure in the boat. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


267 


‘ Oh, I understand it all now, madam; you needn’t 
explain/ said Henry Brownrigg, scathingly. ‘ My good 
men, this lady was to have been wedded to me next 
month, but she prefers masquerading at midnight in 
men’s attire. Be good enough to help her from the 
boat. ’Tis a pity that the spectators are not more 
numerous and that our theatre is indifferently lighted/ 
and with a coarse jest he turned mercilessly towards the 
shrinking figure of his fiancee. 

All this time Michael had stood by in silence, mad- 
dened by the sense of his helplessness, but that last 
ribald speech was too much for his powers of endurance. 
With a dexterous movement of the head, he suddenly 
jerked the lantern off the branch of the willow, and 
then, before the Under- Sheriff or his men could rescue 
it from the ground, gave it a kick which sent it spinning 
through the air, to splash into the middle of the river 
and sink to the bottom. 

The men were just dragging Audrey ashore, when the 
little group found themselves in sudden darkness. 
John Radcliffe laughed till the tears ran down his 
cheeks. But the Under-Sheriff, understanding the 
chivalrous thought of his rival, only hated him the 
more, and, with a savage determination not to be 
baulked, called upon Youdale to get out the tinder- 
box. 

‘ There is a gorse-bush a few paces off; set it alight/ 
he said, peremptorily, and the men obeyed, while the 
others brought the three prisoners forward, not a little 
curious to see more plainly how the plotters would look. 

In truth it was a strange scene; it appealed even to 
such a case-hardened man of the world as John Rad- 
cliffe. There they stood, with the dark outline of 
Causey Pike and Rowling End showing out clearly for 
background, while every now and then the Newlands 
Valley would he bathed in the dazzling radiance of the 


268 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


summer lightning. The flaming gorse-bush cast a 
strong light upon Michael and Audrey, but, whereas in 
the boat she had been merely a terrified girl, she had 
now suddenly developed into a woman, and stood there 
with a patient dignity which partly hid the hitter pain 
she was suffering. John Radcliffe saw that Michael 
was less successful in concealing the indignation that 
raged within him, and strange thoughts passed through 
the elder man’s mind as he watched that curiously 
familiar face with its Welsh outlines, its reproachful 
hazel eyes. As for the north-countrymen, they looked 
uncomfortable and ill at ease, while the Under-Sheriff, 
his tall, portly figure and handsome features showing to 
great advantage in the lurid light, might have stood for 
an impersonation of Milton’s Archfiend, so full of pride 
and malice did he appear. 

‘ Did you know that there was a warrant out against 
Mr. John Radcliff e ? ’ he demanded of Michael. 

‘Yes, I learnt it yesterday.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘ It was casually mentioned in a letter I had from 
London.’ 

‘ Did the letter say that Mr. Radcliffe was in this 
part of the country? ’ 

‘ Yo, I learnt that later on.’ 

‘ Who from? ’ 

‘ I was out mothing that night, as Mounsey and Bir- 
kett will have told you; later on I came across the Bor- 
rowdale Bogle, and discovered that it was Mistress Rad- 
cliffe carrying food to her uncle.’ 

Henry Brownrigg turned upon Audrey at that, 
speaking in the clear, cutting tone which in itself seems 
an insult. 

‘ I begin to understand, madam,’ he said. ‘ You have 
deceived me for several days past, and, not content with 
that, you elected to spend last night in the company of 


HOPE THE HERMIT 269 

the Borrowdale bastard, though knowing quite well that 
he is my hated rival, a man I ’ 

He broke off, for J ohn Badcliffe had stepped forward. 

‘ Sir/ said the J acobite, in a cool, mocking voice, ‘ it 
really distresses me to see you labouring so unneces- 
sarily under a mistake. Also I must insist on your 
withdrawing the epithet you used. Michael is my son 
by my first marriage, and you will hardly say that 
he was doing an outrageous thing in protecting his 
cousin. Mistress Badcliffe, in her walk to my hiding- 
place/ 

If a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet the little 
group could hardly have been more startled; as for 
Michael, he stood like a man in a dream. Could it 
really be that at last he had found the truth he had so 
long sought? And was this Jacobite, to whom from 
the very first he had felt drawn, the father he had learnt 
to detest for the wrong done him as an infant and 
for the way in which his mother had been treated? 
Then he remembered how the tardy acknowledgement 
had been made to save Audrey’s reputation, and he 
thought no more of past wrongs, but only of present 
gratitude. 

He crossed over towards Henry Brownrigg, who stood 
petrified with astonishment, his face dark with conflict- 
ing emotions. c Mr. Brownrigg/ said Michael, ‘ I am 
ready of course to take the responsibility of having 
helped my father to escape, but now that you under- 
stand all, let your betrothed row back to Lord’s Island.’ 

‘ Ha! betrothed did you say? ’ said the Under-Sheriff, 
with a mocking laugh. ‘ Hay, I call you all to witness 
that I return my troth to this audacious masquerader. 
The doublet and hose are doubtless very becoming, but 
for my future wife I prefer the petticoat. If Mistress 
Badcliffe apes the ways of men she must be treated as 
a man. You, sir, will, I understand, be heir to the 


270 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


estate of Goldrill in Patterdale when your Jacobite 
father is hung, hut as things stand you seem likely to 
spend your days in gaol, so the inheritance will not avail 
you much. I am under an obligation to you, however, 
for that estate would have been my sole inducement to 
overlook the midnight ramblings of our dainty cavalier 
yonder and still to wed her. 5 

‘ You vile coward! ’ cried Michael, his eyes blazing 
with anger. c How dare you insult my cousin? The 
moment I am free I will call you to account for it/ 

Henry bowed ironically. 

‘ I accept your challenge with the greatest pleasure/ 
he said. ‘ Now, men, march these Jacobite plotters 
hack to Keswick, and since there is no more cord we 
must e’en let the Borrowdale Bogle go unbound. Bir- 
kett, you have been ghost-stalking since Saturday. I 
commend her to your keeping. Have a care, man, that 
she doesn’t slip through your fingers.’ 

Michael glanced for one moment into the face of the 
woman he loved. Since that appeal to Henry from the 
boat she had not uttered a word; her old playfellow’s 
pain prompted that stifled cry, hut her own suffering 
seemed to have half-paralysed her. She bore the look 
of stony despair which one sees at times in the face of 
the bereaved, for in truth those words which Henry 
Brownrigg had spoken, that exhibition of merciless, 
brutal cruelty, had shattered into a thousand fragments 
the image of her lover which she had so long cherished. 
The man she had admired — yes, and loved with her 
whole heart — was absolutely dead; she saw him now as 
he really was, and the blank desolation of her heart was 
indescribable. 

She longed to lie down and die, but there was the 
miserable necessity of tramping the weary way to Kes- 
wick. By the time they had crossed the dewy fields, 
however, and had reached the lane leading from Cros- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


271 


thwaite Church to the little market town, her steps had 
begun to falter; it seemed as if she could go no further. 
Michael, who walked just behind her, lagged a little 
and spoke beneath his breath to the constable. 

f Greenhow, you are a good-hearted fellow/ he said. 
‘ Tell the Under-Sheriff that Mistress Kadcliffe is faint; 
she might rest at Hye Hill. See, they have a light yet 
burning/ 

But the Under-Sheriff was not in a compliant mood. 

‘ No favouritism/ he said shortly. ‘ She will spend 
the night in the lock-up; but if she is faint, why, let her 
rest a minute in the porch yonder. I see the Quaker 
has a bench on each side/ 

By this time Audrey felt as if her last hour had come; 
each time Henry spoke a quiver of pain shot through 
her heart; it was as though the ghost of dead love was 
trying to struggle back to life. Blind, giddy, gasping 
for breath, she let the constable put her down on the 
bench, while, for a moment, she must have drifted quite 
away into unconsciousness. When she came to herself, 
she found that someone had opened the door of the 
house and that light was streaming upon the little group 
in the porch; she could see that Michael, his arms still 
hound with cruel tightness to his sides, stepped eagerly 
forward. 

‘ Sir/ he said, ‘ I claim your help for our kinswoman, 
Audrey Badcliffe; she is faint with fatigue/ 

The old Quaker, ignoring the cavalier costume, per- 
haps scarcely noticing it, came quickly towards the pros- 
trate figure and laid his hand on the long, shining curls 
that half hid the face. 

‘ Friend Audrey/ he said, ‘welcome to my house! 
Come in and rest/ 

‘ Nay, Mr. Quaker/ said Henry Brownrigg, with a 
harsh laugh, ‘your fair kinswoman must lie to-night 
in the lock-up. She hath mixed herself up with a 


272 


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treasonable Popish plot that even yon would not ap- 
prove of/ 

Audrey caught at her old kinsman’s hand, gripping 
it much as Michael had done in that paroxysm of pain 
when he had first met him. The old Quaker knew very 
well what such an act meant, for in his time he had 
comforted many. 

‘ There is no disgrace in a gaol, Audrey/ he said 
quietly. ‘ Yet I am right glad to see thee ere thou dost 
go to it. Wait awhile, for my wife is suffering from 
the ague, and I have on the fire a posset keeping hot for 
her. Thou shalt drink some of it, and it will hearten 
thee for the rest of thy walk/ 

His tone soothed her, and it was perhaps quite as 
much the kindly tenderness of his manner as the vir- 
tues of the sack posset which restored her strength. 
Her blank, desolate world, which had been wrecked by 
Henry Brownrigg, began to put forth little shoots of 
life. Did not this old kinsman, though so little known 
to her, treat her with the loving thoughtfulness of a 
father? Into her frozen heart there stole a gratitude 
which she could never have put into words. And she 
grew strong to face the hard future as she remembered 
how, at the worst, her own kinsfolk had stood by her — 
how indeed their one thought had been to shelter and 
spare her. 

In a few minutes they had looked their last on the 
old Quaker and were marching on into Keswick, but 
the thought of that peaceful face, with its quiet, kindly 
eyes, lingered with Michael and Audrey like a good 
angel. How he had suffered in the past! and how well 
he must have suffered to come through it all with such 
a look! 

And so it came about that Henry Brownrigg, who 
had expected passionate protestations and entreaties 
that at least Audrey might be spared the ignominy of 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


273 


spending the night in the lock-up, was entirely baulked, 
for the three prisoners calmly allowed themselves to be 
led in by Birkett and Greenhow, nor did they address 
a single word to him. He walked away to his quarters 
at the Royal Oak in high dudgeon. 

18 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Wheit Greenhow had lighted his lantern the prison- 
ers saw that the lock-up was a bare, flagged place about 
nine feet square. It had been cleaned out on Monday, 
after the removal of a refractory prisoner to Cocker- 
mouth, and it seemed to he absolutely without furni- 
ture. The constable, however, said he would fetch 
some straw, and speedily returned with a big bundle of 
it under one arm and a pitcher of water in the other. 

‘ Can’t you take off these cords ? ’ said J ohn Rad- 
cliffe. 

‘ I dursn’t do it, sir/ said Greenhow. ‘ The Under- 
Sheriff says they are to he left till you’ve been before 
the magistrate in the morning.’ 

However, the fellow did what he could to make their 
imprisonment tolerable to them, and finally left them 
with a friendly e Good-night,’ locking and bolting the 
door after him, and retreating to his own home with 
echoing steps down the silent street. 

There was an unglazed window high up in the north 
wall, and between the iron bars the faint, grey light of 
early dawn was beginning to steal. A clock in Sir Joseph 
Banks’ house just opposite struck two. 

‘ Mic,’ said Audrey, ‘ let me bathe your wrists for you; 
they are all bleeding.’ 

‘Yes, that’s a happy thought,’ said John Radcliffe. 
* Those brutes have cut into the flesh.’ 

To tell the truth, Michael would have endured much 
severer pain for the bliss of feeling those soft, womanly 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


275 


hands tending him. He was startled, however, when 
Audrey gave a sad little laugh. 

‘ Why, how foolish lam!’ she said, beginning quietly 
to undo the tight knots. f I will set you free and have 
the cords on again before Greenhow comes in the 
morning/ 

Then Uncle Radcliffe chuckled softly to himself, like 
a man well pleased. 

‘ Did I not tell you that you had the best wits of us 
all? ’ he said. ‘ Fm hanged if the thought of your un- 
loosing us ever crossed my mind/ 

Before long she had freed them both. Michael then 
began to heap the straw together for her in the further 
corner and to spread his coat for her. 

f You will rest, cousin/ he said, gently drawing 
her towards the bed he had prepared. ‘ As for me, 
there is much that I would fain talk over with my 
father/ 

And stooping to kiss her hand, with a reverence 
which went straight to the heart Henry Brownrigg had 
outraged, he turned away. 

As for Audrey, with her face turned to the wall and 
her cousin’s coat wrapped about her, she for the first 
time broke down utterly, and, lying there in the semi- 
darkness, wept till she could weep no more. 

Meanwhile the two men sat at the further end of the 
cell deep in conversation. 

‘ Many a time in London/ said John Radcliffe, f I 
was minded to own you, for, from the first day I met 
you at Whitehall, I liked you, boy. But then there was 
the accursed difference in our religion and our politics. 
I did my utmost to bring you round to the true church 
and to make a Jacobite of you, hut it was of no use. 
Then, too, you were thirsting for revenge and were 
doing your utmost to find out your unknown father; I 
thought there would he difficulties and put off the con- 


276 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


fession, but I always intended to acknowledge you 
sooner or later . 5 

‘ Why did you desert my mother? 5 asked Michael, his 
eyes lighting up angrily. 

‘I never did desert her , 5 said John Kadcliffe. ‘You 
might justly reproach me with having abandoned you 
to your fate, but your mother I never did desert . 5 

‘ They told me at Watendlath that you left her in the 
time of her greatest need . 5 

‘ Nothing of the sort , 5 said John Kadcliffe. ‘ I was 
obliged to go on to Lord’s Island, and it was impossible 
to take her with me, since no one knew of the marriage. 
We had come over from Patter dale, where I had been 
to look after the Goldrill estate for Sir Nicholas. 
Knowing that Watendlath was a quiet place where I 
could safely leave her, I rode on to Derwentwater, and 
not long after my arrival my nephew Marmaduke’s post- 
humous child was born and proved to be a girl. Then 
I knew that I was next heir to the Goldrill estate. As 
soon as was possible I went with young Vane to Wa- 
tendlath to ask how matters were with my wife. What 
happened you know. She was already dead. Had she 
lived, your life might have been very different. But she 
was gone, leaving me only a puny babe, whose existence 
bid fair to thwart all my plans . 5 

‘What plans ? 5 said Michael. 

‘The lady I shortly afterwards married , 5 said John 
Kadcliffe, ‘had always coveted the Goldrill estate. I 
knew that she would accept my suit now that I was heir, 
but it was out of the question that I should confess my 
secret marriage with your mother and tell the Lady 
Isabella that no child of hers could inherit the estate. 
In order to make my marriage with this lady possible 
— she had great influence at court, and would, I thought, 
ensure my success in life — I made up my mind to drown 
you. But when it came to the point, and I was going 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


277 


to cast you into the Derwent, I couldn’t do it. So I 
just left you there on the bank, hoping that someone 
would take pity on you. ’Twas a dastardly thing to do, 
and Father Noel has for years tried to make me ac- 
knowledge you, but somehow the right time never came, 
and it grew harder as the years went on. I hope you 
won’t bear malice.’ 

There was a silence in the cell. 

‘Why don’t you speak, Michael?’ urged his father, 
trying in vain in the dim light to read his son’s face. 
‘ I have gained nothing by all these schemes, and now, 
as likely as not, shall be sent to the gallows. Come, say 
you forgive me.’ 

But Michael thought of the horrible slur on his birth, 
under which his whole life had been past. And to for- 
give was hard. Nor was his father’s easy-going, selfish 
nature one that called out the better side of those who 
had to do with him. In the dead silence of the lock-up 
there was no sound to he heard but Audrey’s regular 
breathing, for at last she slept. 

Presently she gave a little sob in her sleep, and 
Michael remembered how bitterly she had suffered that 
night. He turned back to his father. 

c I forgive you, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘ because to-night 
you acknowledged me in time to shield Audrey. I for- 
give you gladly, for you have baulked the Under- 
Sheriff.’ 

‘ If only the maid could realise it, she is well quit of 
that great, hectoring bully,’ said J ohn Radcliffe. ‘ By 
the powers! if you and I had not been bound he should 
not have escaped scot-free; we would have ducked him 
in the river and cooled his ribald tongue. We would 
have sent him spinning through the air after his lan- 
tern. Well, the marriage will never come off now, for 
it was the estate he hankered after, and that will be 
yours. By the bye, he will owe you a double grudge, 


278 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and will doubtless do his best to keep you in gaol. But 
I scarcely think Audrey would have him after his con- 
duct to-night, even if he did succeed in getting us both 
out of the world/ 

‘ He will hardly be able to manage that/ said 
Michael. 

‘ Not in your case, unless he distorts things very 
greatly. But I suspect ’twill be a hanging matter for 
me/ said John Radcliffe coolly. ‘ You must tell Father 
Noel that I have acknowledged you, and the best solu- 
tion of the difficulty would be for you to wed Audrey/ 

The hot blood rushed to Michael’s face. 

‘ She does not care for me/ he said in a low voice. 
‘ She loved the Under- Sheriff .’ 

‘Very possibly/ said John Radcliffe. ‘That is to 
say she loved his fine person, and the pretty picture of 
the man’s noble character which she drew in her own 
mind. That picture is gone now, and in its place there 
remains only the grim reality of a low-minded, coarse, 
brutal tyrant, who taunted and insulted her. He has 
no one but himself to thank; he deliberately killed her 
love for him. Depend upon it, the time will come when 
she will learn to care for the fellow who kicked the 
lantern into the river.’ 

And it was then that there flashed back into Michael’s 
mind the words that Zinogle had spoken only a few 
hours before about hope. 

When Audrey woke, the sun had long ago risen and 
she could hear voices in the little Market Square. She 
looked round in a bewildered way,, puzzled for a moment 
not to see the wainscotted walls of her bedroom and the 
picture of her mother, generally the first thing upon 
which her eyes rested upon waking. Instead, the light 
was streaming through heavy iron bars, and at the other 
side of the room sat Uncle Radcliffe with his back 
against the wall and his mouth wide open, snoring 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


279 


loudly, while, stretched uneasily upon the flagstones, 
Michael lay, with his head pillowed on his arm, fast 
asleep. 

Then it all came back to her again, and with a moan 
of pain she hid her face from the light. After all she 
had endured the last few days, all the anxiety and sus- 
pense, the misery of a divided duty, here was her great- 
uncle in prison and in danger of his life, while her own 
life had been utterly wrecked, and the lover she had 
fondly deemed a tower of strength had proved a mere 
broken reed. Thinking over it all, she remembered 
now his strange manner to Michael when, in the pre- 
vious autumn, he had found them looking together at 
Lucy Carleton’s book. She remembered, too, how a 
faint misgiving had stirred in her mind when he came 
to Lord’s Island a week ago and asked if they had vis- 
itors. It was only too clear now that she and her mother 
had been utterly deceived in him, and that the men, 
who one and all seemed to disapprove of the proposed 
marriage, had been right. Well, he had gone for ever 
out of her life — the man to whom she had for more than 
a year been betrothed might be said never to have had 
any real existence. It was there that the sting lay. 

Suddenly she remembered that Greenhow would be 
returning ere long to attend to his prisoners, and she 
started up and stole across to rouse her uncle. 

‘ Let me bind your arms, sir/ she said, ‘ before Green- 
how comes, or you may get into trouble.’ 

‘ True,’ said John Radcliffe, yawning and rubbing his 
eyes as he stood up. ‘ I see my son sleeps still. Hark 
you, Audrey, I am sorry enough to have exposed you to 
so much suffering and insult at the hands of Mr. Brown- 
rigg, but believe me, niece, you will one day thank me 
for opening your eyes. It may be that I shall not see 
you again alone; the feeling in the country is sure to 
run very strongly for a time against all Jacobites, and 


28 o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


I don’t expect to cheat the gallows. Later on, when 
you have had time to recover the shock of last night, 
try to remember that my son has loved you all his life. 
I have dealt hardly by him, God knows! Try to do 
what you may to make the rest of his life more 
endurable/ 

Audrey dropped her head, and her eyes swam with 
tears. 

‘Alas!’ she said, ‘but that is not in my power, sir. 
I think my heart is dead/ 

Nothing more could he said by John Radcliffe, for 
Michael just then began to stir, and indeed it was well 
that he woke, for he had scarcely donned his coat and 
allowed Audrey to hind his arms again when Greenhow 
appeared. The fellow brought them bread and another 
pitcher of water, and told them that he had orders to 
take them in a couple of hours’ time to the house of 
Squire Williamson, the magistrate, at which news 
Audrey’s cheeks began to burn and tingle. Turning 
aside, she made the best preparations she could for feed- 
ing her fellow-prisoners, while her great-uncle, with 
that curious ability to take all things in the lightest 
fashion, did his utmost to make the meal a merry one. 
His companions were in prison solely through his fault, 
but this never seemed to distress him; on the contrary, 
with the perception of the desperate plight they were 
all in, his spirits actually rose, and, with death staring 
him in the face, he was more than ever determined to 
extract the last grain of enjoyment from life. 

Michael partly understood how it was with frim, and 
could not but admire his courage, but, as a matter of 
fact, the examination before the magistrate did not ap- 
pear in the least formidable to a man of the world and 
a stranger, while to Michael and Audrey it meant the 
adverse criticism and the merciless gaze of the people 
they had known from their childhood. When Green- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


281 


how came for them Audrey’s face was of a marble 
whiteness. 

‘ Courage, little J oan of Arc/ said J ohn Radcliffe. 
‘ I’ll warrant you are tenfold more brave and pure than 
those who will cry shame on you.’ 

So they walked out of the cell and left the quaint, 
wooden Town Hall and stepped out into the little Mar- 
ket Square, where quite a crowd of people were awaiting 
them, since Keswick and the neighbourhood had been 
greatly excited by the news of the arrest. For himself, 
Michael could have faced the ordeal calmly enough, 
but thinking of Audrey, his face flushed and his eyes 
grew bright. Alas! bound as he was, he could do noth- 
ing save walk by her side. At her right hand were 
John Radcliffe and the constable, while Birkett kept 
to Michael’s left, elbowing a way for them through the 
gaping crowd. He could only hope that she did not 
hear the comments of the people. Yet he feared she 
did, for her head drooped lower, so that her sunny curls 
half veiled her face, and once he was sure that her steps 
faltered. 

But suddenly her whole bearing changed, for, with a 
fierce cry of c Death to the Papist! ’ a burly fellow flung 
a handful of mud right into John Radcliffe’s face, and 
stones would have followed had not the constable 
sternly called the fellow to order. 

Then Audrey, who a moment before had been like 
one crushed beneath an intolerable burden, seemed all 
at once to gain new life. She stopped the little pro- 
cession, Greenhow not venturing to object, and there, 
before all the people, she drew out her handkerchief and 
wiped the mud from her uncle’s face. The man who 
had flung it slunk away ashamed, and the crowd 
watched in absolute silence, nor did Michael hear an- 
other word of abuse all the way to Squire Williamson’s 
house. 


282 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


They were taken into the hall, where, early though it 
was, quite a number of people had gathered. The 
Under-Sheriff was there and the other men who had’ 
been present at the time of the arrest, and Mrs. Brown- 
rigg, very stiff and stately, with a grim expression about 
her mouth and a stony stare for the girl who was to have 
been her daughter-in-law. There, too, was Nathaniel 
Radcliffe with his calm face and gentle eyes, besides 
many others of the gentry of the neighbourhood, 
Williamsons and Huttons, distant Radcliffe kinsfolk, 
Fletchers from Wythop, and Le Flemings from Monks- 
hall. 

Someone offered Audrey a chair, hut she declined it, 
choosing to stand with her uncle and Michael at the 
table before which Squire Williamson sat with papers 
and an inkhorn in front of him. All three prisoners 
pleaded guilty: John Radcliffe to a charge of con- 
spiring to bring about the return of King James, and 
Michael and Audrey to the charge of endeavouring to 
aid the escape of John Radcliffe, knowing that a war- 
rant was out for his arrest. The Jacobite’s case was 
quickly disposed of; there was no possible choice hut to 
commit him for trial, and Squire Williamson gave 
orders that he should he conveyed to Cockermouth on 
the following Monday. 

He next turned to Michael. 

‘ I am sorry you are mixed up in an affair of this sort, 
Mr. Derwent/ he remarked, not unkindly. 4 It is an ill 
beginning, and one that will little please your patron, 
Sir Wilfrid Lawson.’ 

‘ Sir,’ said Michael, ‘ my life has been curiously 
changed by Mr. John Radcliffe’s visit to the north. It 
seems that I also am a Radcliffe — his son by his first 
marriage.’ 

Now, Henry Brownrigg had not seen fit to make this 
public as yet, and had hidden his men to hold their 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


283 


tongues, so that when the Borrowdale foundling quietly 
announced his parentage there was much excitement in 
the hall. 

John Radcliffe scanned the faces of the people care- 
fully, then turned to Squire Williamson. 

‘ It is perfectly true, sir, and the matter was owned 
by me many years ago to Father Noel in confession. He 
has long urged me to acknowledge my son, but, on my 
return from France, finding him to be a Protestant and 
an Orangeite, I put it off, and Father Noel could not 
speak, as he knew the matter only under the seal of the 
confessional. I think you will admit, Squire, that it is 
not a great crime for a son to aid his father’s escape/ 

But at this Michael started forward. 

‘ Sir, let us keep to # the truth/ he said, colouring. ‘ I 
did not do it for your sake, but solely to help the kins- 
man of Sir Nicholas and Mistress Audrey Radcliffe. 
They have been good to me all my life/ 

There was something frank and spontaneous in this 
speech that appealed to those present; moreover, John 
Radcliffe’s confession that he would have owned his son 
before had he not been a Protestant and an anti- Jacobite 
evoked a good deal of feeling in Michael’s favour. 

‘ When did you know that Mr. J ohn Radcliffe was in 
the neighbourhood?’ asked Squire Williamson. 

‘ The night before last, sir,’ said Michael, f when, as 
I was out catching moths for a collection now being 
made by Sir William Denham of the Royal Society and 
Dr. Martin Lister, I happened to catch sight of the 
Borrowdale Bogle, and, wishing to learn what the phan- 
tom really was, stood my ground and laid hold upon it. 
I then discovered that it was Mistress Radcliffe carrying 
food to her great-uncle, who lay hidden in the woods. 
It was impossible to let her go alone all that way in the 
dead of night, knowing, as I did, that the Under- 
Sheriff’s men were at no great distance. I went with 


284 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


her and saw her home to Lord’s Island, and it was ar- 
ranged that the next evening I should provide a boat, 
in which Mr. Radcliffe might escape to the further end 
of Bassenthwaite and thence go across country to the 
sea-coast, for he gave us his word that he would quit 
England and weave no more plots. How the TJnder- 
Sherilf dogged my steps and kept watch for us on the 
banks of the Derwent you have heard from his own lips. 
I have nothing more to say, sir.’ 

‘ I am sorry it falls to my lot to commit you for trial,’ 
said Squire Williamson, ‘ but I’ll not send you to Cock- 
ermouth prison if you are prepared to offer bail.’ 

Then the old Quaker stepped forward and offered to 
find the necessary money. 

c Long ago, when he was but a little lad, Michael Der- 
went did me a service when I was lialed to Cockermouth 
gaol,’ he said, in his mild, quiet voice. f ’Tis a happi- 
ness to me to claim him as my kinsman and to offer him 
what help I may.’ 

There now only remained Audrey’s case to be dis- 
posed of, and Squire Williamson looked uneasily across 
the table at the slight figure in its cavalier dress, and at 
the pale, suffering, yet dignified, face of the girl. He 
was a kind-hearted man, with daughters of his own, 
and he remembered how only a few months before he 
had seen Audrey standing with something of the same 
look beside the open vault in Crosthwaite Church, into 
which her mother’s coffin had just been lowered. It 
was a strange thing in those days for a woman to attend 
a funeral, but Audrey had been present because she 
was the only near relative belonging to the Church of 
England, and all the spectators had been forced to real- 
ise how desolate the girl’s position would be, left alone 
with those whose views were opposed to her own. They 
had said then that it was well she was betrothed to 
Henry Brownrigg, but that betrothal was now at an 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


285 


end, for the Under-Sheriff had said so, and indeed 
people thought he was well out of the affair now that 
the maid had ventured to play so dangerous a part. 
Still the squire could not feel harshly towards her. 

c Tell me, Mistress Audrey/ he said, ‘ was it of your 
own choice that you learnt of your great-uncle’s 
arrival ? ’ 

‘ No, sir/ she said, in a low, clear voice, f we none of 
us had any choice in the matter. He just came into 
the room where I was sitting with my grandfather and 
Mr. Noel late one evening and told us that he had fled 
from London because he had been involved in a plot 
against their Majesties. He pleaded for shelter, and 
since it seemed impossible to have him in the house so 
often visited by Mr. Brownrigg, it was thought best that 
he should shelter among the fells. I was the only able- 
bodied one in the house, and went with him to show him 
a hiding-place, and again on the Wednesday night I 
went to take him more food. The rest you know from 
my cousin’s account.’ 

‘ Yet you are still faithful to the Church of England, 
and a loyal subject of King William and Queen Mary? ’ 

‘ Yes, sir/ said Audrey. ‘ I saw nothing against my 
duty towards church or state in carrying bread and meat 
to my kinsman, or in steering the boat last night when 
we hoped he would have been able to quit the country.’ 

‘ Lady Alice Lisle was burnt for a similar offence by 
King James/ said the squire, ‘but, thank God, since 
our peaceful revolution, times are changed, and Parlia- 
ment has reversed this cruel sentence. Since you assure 
me, Mistress Radcliffe, that you only did this carrying 
of food and this aiding and abetting the escape of your 
great-uncle out of the natural affection of a niece, I 
shall discharge you, and consider that you have already 
suffered enough and paid the penalty of what we can 
only call a rash deed.’ 


286 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


The old magistrate had certainly the sympathy of al- 
most all present, and Audrey received many kindly 
words when, after taking leave of her uncle, Nathaniel 
Radcliffe escorted her to the door. But, to tell the 
truth, she was too much dazed to heed them, and was 
chiefly conscious of Henry’s air of studied indifference 
and of his mother’s shrewish words: 

‘ For my part, I think you have fared far better than 
you deserve. Mistress Radcliffe,’ she said, with a chilling 
farewell curtsey. ‘ My only satisfaction is in feeling 
that we learnt in time how much we had been mistaken 
in you.’ 

Audrey’s head drooped low, and burning tears rushed 
to her eyes; she clung closer to the old Quaker’s arm, 
and wondered what made him glance back with anxiety 
in his face to the spot where Henry Brownrigg and 
Michael stood exchanging a few last words. 

‘ Your messenger will find me at the Royal Oak,’ she 
heard Henry say. But, worn out and utterly exhausted 
by all she had gone through, it never occurred to her 
to think that the words referred to the challenge of the 
previous night. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Nathaniel Radcliffe, though he had not heard the 
challenge given on the banks of the Derwent, instantly 
guessed that a duel between the Under-Sheriff and his 
rival must be- imminent. The idea that he had him- 
self procured MichaePs release on bail, and that the 
young man was now going out in hot blood to fight his 
enemy, disturbed the Quaker not a little. He knew 
well enough that his young kinsman was in no humour 
to brook interference, nor did he venture to question 
him, but went home in some perplexity after seeing 
Audrey as far as Stable Hills Farm. All that day he 
waited for what he called ‘ a leading/ but nothing came, 
and at length the old man went to bed and slept 
soundly, tired with his disturbed night and the unex- 
pected events of the day. He woke very early and 
.went, as his custom was, into the little room over the 
porch to pray and meditate. Moving after a while to 
open his casement and let in the fresh morning air, he 
was startled to see passing along the road just below the 
window no less a person than the Under-Sheriff, and 
with him young Fletcher of Wythop. ‘ There is mis- 
chief afoot/ he thought, and, going downstairs, he put 
on his three-cornered hat and followed the two men, 
whose appearance at such an early hour evidently boded 
no good. 

But the Quaker was old and infirm and the young 
men were walking quickly; to overtake them was im- 
possible; he could only hurry on, taking care not to lose 


288 


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sight of them. Presently they turned into a field on 
the left, and Nathaniel Radcliffe, toiling after them, 
was quite prepared for the sight that greeted him. 
The Under-Sheriff was throwing off his coat and waist- 
coat; Michael, already in his shirt-sleeves, was examin- 
ing his rapier, and the seconds — young Fletcher of 
Wythop and a son of Squire Williamson’s, who had been 
at the High School with Michael — were measuring out 
the ground. 

There was a general exclamation when they became 
aware that the Quaker was approaching them. Duel- 
ling, though constantly practised, had long been against 
the law, and Nathaniel Radcliffe, who disapproved of 
fighting altogether, and if struck on the face would 
have turned the other cheek, had evidently come to 
enter a protest. 

Friend/ he said quietly, ‘ more than once before I 
persuaded thee against fighting; listen to me now, and 
do not stain thy soul with this crime. Who is the 
challenger? ’ 

* I am the challenger/ said Michael, hotly, ‘ and this 
time, sir, it is needful that we fight.’ 

‘ What is the quarrel ? ’ said the Quaker. 

f The Under-Sheriff has brutally and wantonly in- 
sulted our kinswoman, Audrey Radcliffe.’ 

c And once before, friend, he slandered thy mother; 
thou wouldst fain have fought him then, and like 
enough if thou hadst done so thy mother’s name would 
never have been freed from blame as yesterday was the 
case.’ 

f Sir/ said Michael, chafing terribly at the interrup- 
tion, ‘it is an affair of honour. I must fight. For 
our cousin’s sake I am bound to fight Mr. Brown- 
rigg/ 

‘ It will not profit Audrey Radcliffe that thou, for her 
sake, dost break Christ’s command. The day is hot so 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


289 


far off as men dream when duelling and war will be 
looked on as brutalities of a bygone time, when the 
beast in man was scarce tamed/ 

‘ But that time has not yet come/ pleaded Michael, 
‘ and now to cry off would be accounted dishonourable/ 

‘ Who would account it dishonourable ? 9 

‘ Why, all the world/ said Michael, keenly sensitive 
to the derisive air with which the Under- Sheriff was 
regarding them. 

c The world ! 9 said the Quaker, a flicker of amusement 
passing over his peaceful face. ‘ Oh, that may very 
well be. But thou hast promised to renounce the 
world. Art so little of a gentleman as to break thy 
word to the King of Kings because, forsooth, an Under- 
Sheriff hath offended thee and thy kinswoman? * 

Michael hit his lip. It was clearly impossible to 
argue with a man who took this position. He won- 
dered if Nathaniel Radcliffe in the least understood 
with what a desperate desire he longed to fight his foe. 
Merely to look at Henry Brownrigg’s sneering face 
made the blood tingle in his veins and stirred in him 
that craving to fight which seems horn in every human 
being. 

‘ Friend/ said the Quaker, ‘ there is fighting enough 
before thee, but ’tis of a nobler sort than can be carried 
on with such a weapon as this. Is John Williamson thy 
second? Then let him talk with Henry Brownrigg’s 
second and say that thou desirest to withdraw from the 
contest/ 

The Quaker’s absolute sincerity always had a curious 
influence over Michael. It seemed to lift him up into 
a purer atmosphere, and now, as they stood in the field 
over which the glow of the sunrise was just beginning 
to spread, his anger died down. Nicholas Radcliffe was 
surely right; what would it profit Audrey that the grass 
and daisies should be dyed with the blood of the man 
19 


290 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


who had jilted her, or of the man who had loved her 
in vain? 

The seconds came to terms, and Henry Brownrigg 
was reluctantly forced to relinquish the idea of the duel. 

‘ If Mistress Radcliffe’s cousin finds that his courage 
fails at the sight of cold steel, I am ready to forego the 
fight/ he said, sarcastically. ‘ Of course it is his con- 
cern; if he has no objection to being considered a cow- 
ard, and has no longer any desire to call me to account 
for the words I used the other night, I certainly am 
the last man to object/ 

The blood rushed to Michael’s face; a storm of pas- 
sionate indignation shook his whole frame. But, by a 
supreme effort, he held his peace. 

The Quaker understood how great a struggle he was 
passing through, and, grasping his arm, drew him 
quietly from the field, saying in his calm way, as he 
passed the Under- Sheriff: 

‘ It is a very small thing that he should he judged of 
you, or of man’s judgment/ 

And, though Henry Brownrigg sneered at this and 
muttered something about the devil quoting Scripture 
for his purpose, he turned away with a discomfited air 
and an uneasy consciousness that the Quaker had had 
the best of it. 

‘ The canting old hypocrite has got some extraor- 
dinary hold over Michael Derwent/ he reflected, ‘but 
I’ll catch my man some day without his angel in drab 
clothing, and methinks he’ll fight fast enough then. I 
shall not rest in peace till I’ve run him through the 
body/ 

Michael breakfasted at Hye Hill and then rowed back 
to St. Herbert’s Isle to get through the day’s work with 
his pupils and to comfort himself by writing a long 
letter to Mistress Mary Denham. Late in the after- 
noon he rowed across to Lord’s Island to inquire after 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


291 


his kinsfolk and to carry his father’s message to the old 
priest. 

Father Noel greeted him very warmly and listened 
eagerly to his account of all that had passed. 

‘ Your father has very little chance of his life/ he 
said, with a sigh. ‘ The feeling in the country against 
the Jacobites is most bitter, and we hear that the French 
are still masters of the Channel and are ready to devas- 
tate the towns on the south coast. I would give much 
to be able to see Mr. Radcliffe, both as friend and priest, 
but you must tell him how matters are with me. Is he 
in low spirits?’ 

‘ No/ said Michael, ‘ but full of gaiety, though I know 
he expects nothing but death.’ 

‘ He is a brave man/ said the priest, ‘ but utterly reck- 
less and unfit to die. Tell him as soon as I can move I 
shall visit him at Cockermouth. The trial will not 
come off yet awhile, and I trust we may meet. Do you 
see him to-day?’ 

‘ Yes, I thought of seeing him this evening/ said 
Michael, ‘ and no doubt Sir Nicholas will send him such 
things as he will need to take with him on Monday when 
they move him to the gaol at Cockermouth.’ 

* To be sure/ said the priest. ‘ By the bye, you had 
best see Sir Nicholas now, for he talks much of you. 
He is rejoiced that the Brownrigg marriage will never 
take place, but nevertheless frets sadly over Audrey’s 
suffering.’ 

* Can I see her? ’ asked Michael. 

The priest hesitated. His active, scheming mind was 
already busy with the future, and he had that very day 
indited a private letter to Mr. Salkeld, greatly hoping 
that he might now renew his suit. 

‘ I don’t advise your seeing her/ he said, kindly. 
* She tries to go about as usual, but ’tis easy to see what 
a strain it is upon her. No doubt you will meet to- 


292 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


morrow, unless indeed she cannot face the ordeal of 
going to service at Crosthwaite and being stared at hy 
the people. Well, yon will see Sir Nicholas, so fare- 
well, my hoy. I am heartily glad that your rights have 
at last been acknowledged/ 

And this was true enough, for Father Noel had the 
kindest of hearts. Yet, nevertheless, he saw that a 
great chance offered itself to him of drawing Audrey 
over to his own church, and his mind began increas- 
ingly to dwell upon it. With Protestantism represented 
hy the Under-Sheriff, who had treated her so brutally, 
surely it would be easy enough to attract her a little 
later on, when the first sharpness of her grief was over, 
by such a genial and courteous Catholic as Mr. Salkeld. 
As for poor Michael, she had never cared for him, and 
he must console himself with the Groldrill estate. 
Doubtless, when once she was safely married and had 
changed her faith, he would get over his hopeless pas- 
sion and would marry someone else. 

‘ The hoy has withstood all Father Sharp’s arguments, 
and we shall never win him as a convert/ reflected the 
priest regretfully. c But Audrey’s mind is more versa- 
tile, more ready to change; with care and patience we 
ought to win her over.’ 


CHAPTER XXX 


Lokd love us! ’ cried Zinogle, throwing himself back 
in his chair and laughing till the tears rolled down his 
face. ‘ To think that the parish clerk refused to he 
godfather to ye long ago, and that I, the Dutch fiddler, 
as they call me, am godfather to the heir of Goldrill 
estate! Ah! my boy, ’tis the whirligig of time that 
brings in his revenges ! 9 

Michael had been telling all that had passed to the old 
fiddler, and perhaps Zinogle’s intense delight in hearing 
his news gave him as much pleasure as he had yet re- 
ceived ; for, naturally enough, Sir Nicholas, though 
kind and courteous, had been more than a little pained 
to think of the shabby way in which his brother had 
behaved in the past, nor did he like to think that his be- 
loved granddaughter would never succeed to the prop- 
erty, and would be left a dowerless maid at his death. 

Sir Nicholas had a mind which moved very slowly 
and did not readily adapt itself to new circumstances. 
Grieved as he was to think of the way in which Michael 
had been wronged, he could not all at once feel him to 
be of his own blood, and Michael, who was over-sensi- 
tive and had a fatal facility in reading people’s thoughts, 
knew perfectly well that the news which had so changed 
his whole position came as a blow to the old man on 
Lord’s Island. 

‘ There’s a fate agafnst me, Snoggles,’ he said, and 
though there was a smile on his lips his eyes were all 
the time sad. 


294 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


c 1 am doomed to be lonely. I have found my father, 
but he’s on the way to the gallows. I have found my 
kinsfolk, but they can scarce accord me a welcome, since 
my advent means their future poverty.’ 

Zinogle did not reply, but taking up his fiddle, played 
a grand old chorale which, by its strong confidence, its 
satisfying simplicity, fairly drove out Michael’s des- 
pondent thoughts. 

‘ What is that ? ’ he asked eagerly. 

‘’Tis Johann Cruger’s Nun Banket alle Gott ,’ said 
the fiddler. ‘ Keep up your heart, lad; things are work- 
ing out far better than you expected when last you sat 
here; and I own ’tis nuts to me to see you checkmate 
the Under-Sheriff.’ 

‘ I am not so sure that we have done with the Under- 
Sheriff now,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘ He is a man 
who takes a good deal of beating.’ 

Taking leave of the old fiddler, he crossed the Market 
Square to the Town Hall and asked Greenhow to admit 
him to the lock-up to speak with his father. It was 
about eight o’clock in the evening and the constable 
grumbled a little, for he wanted to get home to his 
supper. 

‘ ’Twill not be so easy to see him at Cockermouth,’ 
said Michael persuasively. ‘ Come, let me have half an 
hour’s chat with him, Greenhow, and in the meantime 
go and drink my health as Michael Radcliffe at the 
W oolpack.’ 

Greenhow, mollified by the silver coin which found 
its way into his hand, proceeded to unlock the door of 
the cell, and with a muttered remark that he would 
be back in half an hour’s time, he left the father 
and son together and trudged off well content to the 
inn. 

J ohn Radcliffe was supping as comfortably as was pos- 
sible in such a barely furnished place. He had been 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


295 


allowed to send out for food and seemed in excellent 
spirits. 

‘ I made snre I should have had Father Noel descend- 
ing upon me/ he said with a laugh. f ’Tis just as well 
that he is tied up by the leg, for to be lectured by him 
while in the lock-up would be intolerable. Tell him 
Fll see him when it’s time to make my shrift before 
being hung, but not till then/ 

‘ He would have been here could he have moved/ 
said Michael, delivering his old tutor’s message. 

‘ To be sure, worthy man, but, all the same, I’d liefer 
see you, my son. Come try this sack; I have tasted 
worse. “ Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die ” 
is one of your Bible maxims, is it not? ’ 

1 Why do you take so dark a view, sir? It may be 
only a matter of imprisonment/ said Michael, shivering 
a little at the incongruous thought of death and any- 
thing so full of life as the high-spirited, cheery person- 
ality of his father. 

f Oh, I’ll do my best to cheat the gallows/ said John 
Radcliffe with a laugh, ‘ but at present I am not hope- 
ful. That Under- Sheriff will certainly do his utmost 
to put me out of the way, and as yet I can think of no 
means of escape. Tell me what you know of Cocker- 
mouth. What chance should I have of breaking out 
of gaol there ? ’ 

‘ What! you mean escape by stratagem? ’ said Michael. 
‘ I was thinking that you might put faith in the well- 
known tolerance of King William.’ 

‘ Pshaw ! I’ll not be dependent on the Granger’s 
favour. Besides, curse him! he is a prince, and put 
not your trust in princes hath ever been a sound axiom. 
No, I put faith in my own sharp brains and in the slow 
wits of other folk.’ 

* If you mean to try another escape of that sort, why, 
it had best be done here/ said Michael, thoughtfully. 


296 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Then, a sudden light breaking over his face, he con- 
tinued breathlessly, ‘ Why, sir! if you will risk a second 
attempt we might carry it out to-night. We are of the 
same height and build; our voices are of the same pitch 
— nay, Audrey says they are precisely alike. If you 
change clothes with me, give me your light peruke and 
don my brown one, no one would note the difference 
of our features in the gloaming/ 

John Badcliffe laughed and rubbed his hands with 
an almost boyish delight at the suggestion. 

‘ F faith ’tis excellent ! 9 he cried. ‘We’ll fool the 
Under-Sheriff yet. But, boy, it would bring you into 
trouble; ’tis scarce fair for me to take advantage of your 
proposal/ 

‘ It will but be a repetition of my offence, sir. Al- 
ready I have to stand my trial for aiding and abetting 
your escape. This could make but little difference/ 
And, without more ado, Michael began to take off his 
coat, while his father eagerly discussed the best way in 
which to get across country to the sea-coast. Fortu- 
nately, he still had with him the money which Audrey 
had given him in the Happy Valley on the Thursday 
night, so that once out of Keswick he was likely to 
prosper well enough. 

‘ There is the clock in Sir J oseph Banks’ house chim- 
ing half-past eight/ said Michael; ‘ Greenhow will be 
coming back. Are you ready, sir? ’ 

‘Ay, to be sure/ said John Badcliffe; ‘ whole decades 
have rolled off my shoulders on to yours. Come! stoop, 
my worthy father, and try your best to look like a 
Jacobite conspirator and a man that has knocked about 
this wicked world for half a century. How fine a spirit 
Audrey showed when she wiped off the mud that bigot 
threw in my face! ’Tis rank heresy to say so, but I 
somehow fancy you and Audrey, for all your sturdy 
Protestantism, stand a better chance of escaping hell 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


297 


than I do; but not a word of that to Father Noel/ he 
added, with a smile. 

It was not till afterwards that Michael recalled this 
speech; his mind was far too mnch taken np with the 
difficulties of the present to have any room for thoughts 
of the hereafter. 

‘ I hear G-reenhow’s steps/ he said eagerly. ‘ Farewell, 
sir, and may we succeed better this time/ 

J ohn Eadcliffe put both hands on his son’s shoulders 
and looked searchingly into his eyes. For the first time 
in his selfish, reckless life a faint flicker of genuine love 
lit up his heart. 

‘We shall scarce meet again/ he said, with a sigh, 
‘and I’m half-ashamed to leave you to bear the brunt 
of things here. Yet, perhaps Sir Wilfrid Lawson will 
again befriend you.’ 

‘ Yes, yes/ said Michael hastily. ‘ You must go, sir, 
and here is Greenhow at the very door.’ 

‘ Then farewell/ said John Eadcliffe, as the constable 
entered. ‘We must not keep Greenhow any longer 
from his bed.’ 

With a hurried embrace and a grip of the hand, he 
turned away and pulled his hat low over his eyes and 
walked out of the cell, while Michael flung himself care- 
lessly down upon the straw, secure that Greenhow would 
notice nothing in the gloom. 

The Market Square seemed deserted, and John Ead- 
cliffe walked steadily on, his heart beating high with 
hope and a smile flickering about his lips as he caught 
the sounds of Kinmont Willie from the open doorway 
of the Woolsack. The noisy chorus of: 

‘ Wi’ the stroke of a sword instead of a file, 

They ransom’d Willie in auld Carlisle/ 


followed him far in the quiet night. 


298 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


He had crossed the bridge over the Greta, and had 
passed Hye Hill, when sounds of a galloping horse be- 
hind him filled him with panic. To seek a hiding-place 
was ont of the question; he could only walk quietly on, 
hoping that the dusk would protect him. 

The horseman dashed past, then suddenly reined in 
his steed and confronted him. To his horror he saw 
that it was the Under-Sheriff, his handsome face flushed 
with wine, his eyes bright with anger. 

‘You coward! you poltroon! ’ he shouted. ‘This is 
the very chance I have been longing for. Your Quaker 
kinsman shall not step betwixt us again. You chal- 
lenged me, and, by heaven! you shall not back out of 
it. Come! Ho need of seconds! We’ll fight now by 
the roadside.’ 

John Kadcliffe hesitated. He saw that the Under- 
Sheriff had been drinking heavily; perhaps, after all, 
the best way would be to humour him and to fight on 
Michael’s behalf. It would surely be easy enough to 
give the fellow a slight wound, and then to go on his 
way. 

‘Come!’ roared Henry Brownrigg, ‘none of your 
hypocritical delays. My blood’s up, and fight me you 
shall, Mr. Michael Derwent Kadcliffe, since that’s your 
highly respectable name, you foundling beggar! you 
eater of the bread of charity! ’ 

The colour rose to John Radcliffe’s face; he began 
to realise a little what he had made his son suffer. 

‘ I am ready! ’ he cried, flinging off Michael’s coat 
and waistcoat, but taking care to retain the brown 
periwig. 

Then, in the silence of the summer evening, the duel 
began. 

But John Radcliffe had counted too much on his an- 
tagonist’s drunkenness. The Under- Sheriff, though 
too far gone to penetrate the disguise, was an accom- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


299 


plished swordsman, and even now had the better of his 
adversary. Moreover, while John Radcliffe was think- 
ing solely how he conld slightly disable his foe, Henry 
Brownrigg was animated by an overmastering desire to 
kill a man he detested — a man who stood in his way and 
had thwarted and shamed him. 

By this time the assembly at the Woolsack had broken 
np, and the combatants conld hear two of the singers 
approaching them. They were shouting out the old 
song: 

‘ Dacre’s gone to the war, Willy, 

Dacre’s gone to the war. 

Dacre’s Lord has crossed the flood 
And left us for the war.’ 

Henry Brownrigg, wild at the thought of possible in- 
terruption, exerted all his strength to control his dis- 
ordered faculties, and, just as the men from Keswick 
approached him, he triumphantly ran his foe through 
the body. 

With a groan John Radcliffe fell to the ground, and 
the Under- Sheriff, sober enough now, bent over him. 

‘ Michael! ’ he exclaimed, not without a faint feeling 
of remorse in his heart, ‘ can I do anything for 
you ? 9 

The dying man half raised himself, made an effort to 
speak, then, with a gasp of agony, sank back on the 
grass. The next moment Henry Brownrigg heard the 
death-rattle in his throat and knew that all was over. 

‘Eh! God ha* mercy on us! what has coom aboot?’ 
exclaimed Matt Birkett and his companion, approach- 
ing. ‘ Sure enoo ’tis the fight betwixt the Under- 
Sheriff and Michael Derwent us heard un planning 
t’other night.’ 

‘My good fellow, you guess rightly enough,’ said 
Henry Brownrigg. ‘ To my great regret, I have had the 


300 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


misfortune to kill Mr. Derwent Radcliffe. As you know, 
he was the challenger, and I had no choice but to fight 
him ! 9 

He walked across to the place where his adversary’s 
coat lay and drew from the pocket the silk handker- 
chief. His fingers happened to touch the embroidered 
corner, and, raising it to his eyes, he recognised Audrey’s 
stitchery in the monogram M. D. The sight touched 
him. Perhaps, after all, she had merely cared for him 
as a foster-brother and old playmate, and, remembering 
how short a time Michael had had to enjoy the knowl- 
edge that he was, after all, no nameless foundling, but 
a Radcliffe, his heart softened a little. 

‘We will carry him down to the landing-place and 
row him across to Lord’s Island,’ he said to the two 
men. ‘ ’Tis more fitting that he should he taken to his 
own kin.’ 

‘ Ay,’ said Birkett. c Poor young gentleman! I’m 
main sorry to think he’s gone, but, as you say, sir, the 
fight was of his ain seekin’.’ 

So they covered the dead face with the handkerchief 
and threw the coat over the body and bore it to the 
nearest boat. Then the two men took the oars, and the 
Under-Sheriff steered for the island. Leaving the men 
in the boat, and bidding them not carry the body to the 
house till he had prepared the relatives, he strode up to 
the main entrance. 

The door stood open and Audrey was just coming 
forward, hearing in her hands a plate full of scraps for 
Rollo, the watch-dog. 

He expected her to blush and falter at sight of him, 
but she looked him quietly in the face with a composure 
that was most daunting. 

Had he been a total stranger, she would, he felt, have 
shown more animation; as it was, she seemed to he 
aware of his presence, yet to have all at once become so 


301 


HOPE THE HERMIT 

entirely aloof from him that he found it most difficult 
to address her. 

f Good-evening/ he said, raising his hat. She coldly 
acknowledged the greeting. 

‘ Do you wish to speak to my grandfather? * she asked, 
her great grey eyes meeting his with the calm indif- 
ference which tells of a dead heart. 

‘ I scarcely know whether to ask for Sir Nicholas or 
not/ said Henry Brownrigg. ‘ The fact is, Fm the 
bearer of bad news/ 

‘ Then you had better speak to me/ said Audrey, 
quietly. ‘My grandfather is very far from well and 
has felt the shock of all these troubles terribly/ 

‘ You are aware/ said the Under-Sheriff, ‘ that 
Michael Derwent — I mean your cousin — challenged me 
the other night. We fought this evening in the fields 
betwixt the Greta and the Derwent, and, to my great 
regret, I have mortally wounded him/ 

Life and light came back to her eyes in a look of 
agony indescribable. 

‘ Mortally! ’ she gasped. ‘You don’t know that for 
certain! — oh, it can’t be! it can’t be! He was so young 
and strong! ’ 

‘It is, alas! only too true/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
alarmed by the look on the girl’s face. 

‘ We may save him yet! ’ she cried. ‘ Where is he? 
Oh, Henry, for God’s sake take me to him! ’ 

‘You do not understand/ he faltered, moved for the 
moment by her distress. ‘ I am trying to prepare you. 
It is all over. He is dead! ’ 

With a stifled moan she threw herself down on the 
steps, hiding her face from the light and crying as if 
her heart would break. ‘He loved me/ she sobbed. 
‘He really loved me, though I never guessed it. Oh, 
fool! fool that I was! I chose your counterfeit love and 
thought it real, and never gave Michael aught but pain/ 


302 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ My love for you was true/ said Henry Brownrigg, 
and he meant what he said, for, according to his lights, 
he had loved this girl, though mercenary thoughts had 
stolen in to mar and spoil everything. 

‘Audrey/ he went on more eagerly, ‘let us forgive 
and forget; I will overlook the part you played the 
other night, and do you also overlook all that has 
chanced since then. Later on, our wedding, so many 
times postponed, shall at last take place, and we will 
bury the past in oblivion/ 

‘ Ho/ she said, struggling to recover her self-com- 
mand. ‘ That can never, never be now. It has all 
been a dreadful mistake. Wedded, we should be miser- 
able. Let us forgive each other, with God’s help, and 
then each go on our way. Michael has died for me. 
How can I forget that? Ah, you don’t understand, and 
I — I only see it now when it is too late, and I can do 
nothing for him.’ 

The Under-Sheriff stood looking at her in deep per- 
plexity. Was this the gentle, even-tempered girl he 
had been betrothed to, or was it the same dignified, 
passionless woman who had confronted him on his ar- 
rival? Truly women were strange beings. He had 
thought of them as pleasant dolls to toy with in idle 
moments, but his doll had suddenly developed into the 
most complex of all mysteries. Suddenly he remem- 
bered that there was one thing which always made the 
sex rise to the occasion. A call upon her practical, 
womanly help would probably restore Audrey’s calm-* 
ness. ^ 

‘ After all was over/ he said, ‘ I rowed here, because 
I thought, since he was a Radcliffe, you would wish 
that his body should be brought to Lord’s Island.’ 

‘ That was good of you/ she said, in a more natural 
voice. ‘ Which landing-place? ’ 

‘ The western one. I thought we should not be seen 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


303 


there from the house. The men are waiting there with 
the body/ 

She caught her breath at that word, and turned 
quickly towards the house, coming back in a minute or 
two with a lantern, for by this time the light had almost 
faded away. 

The Under-Sheriff offered to carry it for her, but she 
shook her head and walked on swiftly in advance of 
him through the orchard and down to the sweet, wooded 
shore, where, not quite two years before, she had seen 
Michael spring out of his boat after that long absence 
at Cambridge. How vividly, and with what cruel pain, 
she recalled it all! His shy reverence of manner, the 
new expression in his eyes, which she had puzzled over, 
and his eager longing to find out the truth about his 
parentage. Alas! poor Mic! he knew all at last, but the 
knowledge had come too late. And he had died for love 
of her! 

Her heart was anything but dead now. It was alive 
and awake and full of love for the man whose life she 
had wrecked so unconsciously. 

And now they had reached the landing-stage, and 
Audrey, holding the lantern high, could clearly see the 
outline of her dead kinsman lying in the boat. At a 
word from the Under- Sheriff, Birkett and his com- 
panion lifted the body and bore it to the shore, swaying 
and staggering as they moved, in a way that made Au- 
drey turn sick with horror. She gave the lantern to 
Henry Brownrigg and signed to the bearers to stop. 
f ( Lay him down here/ she said, and, as they obeyed, 
she lifted the handkerchief from the dead face. The 
Under-Sheriff drew nearer with the lantern, but he did 
not look at the man he had slain; he looked instead, with 
jealous eyes, at the girl who was to have been his 
wife. All at once he saw a change pass over her grief- 
stricken face — a look of astonishment — then, with a 


304 HOPE THE HERMIT 

cry she started back and caught at his arm, as if for 
support. 

‘ What is it? What is it? ’ she cried. ‘ Am I going 
mad, or does death so change faces? He looks like my 
uncle Radcliffe.’ 

The Under-Sheriff bent hastily forward and held the 
light close to the dead face; he pushed hack the brown 
periwig, and saw that the short, light hair beneath it 
was streaked with grey, while, seen more clearly, the 
face was that of a well-preserved man of about fifty. He 
stood there, utterly dumbfounded. 

‘ Whose, then, is this?’ he asked at last, taking up 
the handkerchief and showing the initials to Audrey. 

‘ ’Tis Michael's/ she said, without hesitation. ‘ I 
worked them for him years ago while he was at Cam- 
bridge. The clothes are Michael’s. Ah! don’t you see 
how it must have been? Michael must have tried to 
save him by taking his place in the lock-up.’ 

‘ The knave ! ’ said Henry Brownrigg, furious to 
think how he had been cozened. ‘ But he will find 
that such tricks are not to he played with impunity. 
This Jacobite father of his was ready enough, no doubt, 
to think that he would get the better of me and make 
his escape after.’ 

‘ Was it, then, arranged that you and Michael should 
fight to-night?’ asked Audrey, still trembling with the 
mingled excitement and relief of the strange discovery 
she had made. 

‘Ho; we were to have fought early this morning, 
when who should step in to mar everything hut that 
Quaker kinsman of yours from Hye Hill. With much 
ado he prevailed upon Michael not to fight, and when, 
just now, I saw him, as I thought, alone, and found him 
ready enough to let the affair take place there and then, 
’twas only natural that I should wish to settle matters.’ 

‘Yes, ’twas natural enough,’ said Audrey. ‘Scarce 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


305 


anyone agrees with cousin Nathaniel Radcliffe as to 
fighting, and no one could blame you for what you have 
done. Still, I suppose, you will have to stand your 
trial.’ 

‘ Unless I fly the country/ said the Under-Sheriff, 
musingly. ‘ I must not linger here, in any case. You 
had best prepare Sir Nicholas for his brother’s death, 
and tell him I greatly regret having been the uncon- 
scious instrument. I’ll row back at once to Keswick, 
and the men can wait here and carry the body up to 
the house.’ 

Like one in a dream, Audrey watched him spring 
into the boat and push off, then she reverently covered 
J ohn Radcliffe’s face, and, telling the men to follow her, 
took up the lantern and led the way to the house. 

So, after all, the Jacobite’s escape had been frus- 
trated! Uncle Radcliffe, with all his schemes and his 
light-hearted jests, had passed away, saving, by his death 
in this strange fashion, the son he had desired to kill as 
an infant and had all his life so grievously wronged. 

But Audrey’s thoughts could not linger with death, 
for her heart had come to life once more and was throb- 
bing joyfully with the consciousness that Michael — 
Michael, who had so loved her all these years — was still 
alive and well. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


The Under-Sheriff found his horse cropping the 
grass beneath the tree to which he had tied him up, and, 
mounting in haste, rode off in the direction of Millbeck 
Hall. Here he found only one sleepy serving-man wait- 
ing up for him, and, going quickly to his room, he sat 
down and wrote a letter to Squire Williamson, announc- 
ing to him the startling events of the night, and coun- 
selling that Michael should, for safety’s sake, he at once 
removed to Cockermouth prison, there to await his trial. 
For himself, he said there was nothing left hut to flee 
the country for a time. Having directed and sealed 
this letter, he went up to his mother’s room, for he knew 
that he must he gone before a soul in Keswick was astir. 

Mrs. Brownrigg listened in dismay to the tale of what 
had passed. ‘ It was a thousand pities,’ she said se- 
verely, e that Michael was not slain as you thought; his 
father would, anyhow, have come to the gallows, and 
then you would have been quit of both.’ 

The Under-Sheriff winced. His mother had a blunt 
way of putting into actual words what he preferred to 
keep hidden away in decent retirement as thoughts of 
the heart. 

c I give out that I am fleeing the country,’ he said, 
‘ but, as a matter of fact, mother, I intend to go secretly 
to London, and there to work matters, I hope, to a more 
satisfactory issue. One thing is clear, if Michael is tried 
here in Cumberland, he will either get off scot-free or 
will have but a short term of imprisonment. That, as 
you can guess, will not suit my plans at all. I shall wed 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


307 


Audrey Radcliffe yet and get the Goldrill estate, though 
she little thinks it. But Michael’s trial must be re- 
moved to London, where, with a little management, I 
can give things a very different complexion. I shall go 
there to prepare matters now, and indeed there is ample 
time, for the Assizes are just over. I can safely leave 
him at Cockermouth till my plans are laid/ 

Mrs. Brownrigg sighed. Her son’s enforced absence, 
and the idea of ultimately being obliged to accept Au- 
drey as her daughter-in-law, after all, tried her sorely. 

‘And what if you fail?’ she said, dubiously, as with 
thrifty fingers she counted out the gold pieces he would 
need for his expenses. ‘ What if you fail, Hal? ’ 

‘ I shall not fail, mother,’ said the Under-Sheriff, con- 
fidently. c I have bungled the matter, thanks to the 
twilight last evening, and, to own the truth, I should 
have found out the trick the Radcliffes had played eas- 
ily enough had my head been clear. But Michael will 
not catch me tripping again. He has been daft enough 
to help his worthless father and to get himself into gaol, 
and in gaol he will stay far longer than he dreams.’ 
Then, having made his farewells to his mother and sis- 
ter, and left orders that the letter to Squire Williamson 
should be delivered the first thing in the morning, the 
Under-Sheriff quitted Millbeck Hall, and by sunrise was 
well on his way to Penrith. 

By the time Squire Williamson walked across the 
Market Square to see the prisoner in the lock-up, half 
Keswick had heard the strange news of the Jacobite’s 
escape, and of the duel that had been fought on the pre- 
vious evening. For, had not William Hollins walked in 
from Stable Hills Farm to order Mr. John Radcliffe’s 
coffin? And William was blessed with a real genius for 
giving a story in all its detail, so that half the town 
knew how at first it was supposed that the dead man 
was Michael Derwent, and how Mistress Audrey had 


308 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


wept over the death of her old playfellow, and of her 
amazement when she found ‘ the corp/ as William called 
it, to be that of her great-uncle. 

Had Michael been awake, he would have wondered 
what could have caused so much talking in the Market 
Square on a Sunday morning, when, as a rule, the most 
perfect quiet prevailed. But, having lain awake most 
of the night, wondering how matters would turn out, 
and whether his father would escape to the sea-coast, he 
now slept profoundly, and did not even hear the un- 
locking of the door when Greenhow ushered in Squire 
Williamson and a notary. 

c That’s never Michael Derwent/ said Squire William- 
son, looking across the cell to the figure stretched face 
downwards on the straw. 

‘ Sir/ said the notary, ‘ the Under-Sheriff in his letter 
speaks of the extraordinary change made in the other 
by the different colour of the peruke and the change of 
dress.’ 

As he spoke he crossed the cell and shook the sleeper 
by the shoulder. Michael instantly started up, and 
looked round in a bewildered way. Then, suddenly re- 
membering all, and perceiving who his visitors were, he 
knew that concealment was no longer possible. 

‘ I am here in my father’s place, sir/ he said, bowing 
to Squire Williamson. 

‘ Sir/ said the squire, ‘ I am heartily sorry to find you 
here. I know you for a warm-hearted fellow, and can 
well believe that you did this rash act with a generous 
intent, but you will, I fear, have to pay a heavy penalty, 
and you have gained naught as far as your father is 
concerned.’ 

‘ He has been arrested, then?’ said Michael, his face 
falling. 

‘ Your father, sir, is dead/ said the squire gravely. 

Michael’s face became colourless; a sick feeling of hor- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


309 


ror came over him as he remembered how full of life and 
energy his father had been only a few hours before. It 
was hardly possible to believe the squire’s words. 

e How? ’ he asked, breathlessly. ‘ When? ’ 

‘ It was last night, almost directly after he left this 
place/ said Squire Williamson. ‘ It seems that the 
Under-Sheriff, who was riding back to Millbeck Hall, 
passed him not far from Hye Hill. Mr. Brownrigg owns 
that he had been drinking, and what with that and the 
twilight, he never noticed the change, but mistook him 
for you. He reminded him that the duel which, I 
understand, had been stopped once by Mr. Nathaniel 
Badcliffe, could be fought then without interruption, 
and, your father consenting, they fought in the fields 
near the Greta, and it was not until Mr. Brownrigg had 
taken the body back to Lord’s Island that he and Mis- 
tress Audrey discovered that it was not your corpse, but 
that of Mr. John Radcliffe.’ 

‘ I might have known it to be a piece of Henry 
Brownrigg’s work,’ said Michael, bitterly. ‘ Squire, you 
know well that all my life he has never lost a chance of 
thwarting and hurting me. Your son knows how it 
used to be when we were lads together at school. And 
now — now when I have a right to bring him to justice — 
I am fast in gaol, and can’t stir hand or foot to avenge 
my father.’ 

* The Under-Sheriff has fled,’ said Squire Williamson. 
‘ And as for vengeance, I should leave that, if I were 
you, Michael. You cannot be allowed out again upon 
bail after deliberately aiding a Jacobite to escape a 
second time. You have made your bed, my poor fellow, 
and you will have to lie on it. I am sorry enough that 
it falls to me to order you to be sent at once to Cocker- 
mouth gaol, but I can’t run the risk of keeping you any 
longer here in Keswick. I understand that William 
Hollins is in the town, and if you wish, he can row across 


3io 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


to Herbert’s Isle and get yon snch things as you mean 
to take with you/ 

Michael thanked the kindly old man, and begged to 
see William Hollins at once, for the escort was to take 
him to Cockermouth at noon. The talkative old farmer 
gave him a hearty greeting, and would have lingered 
telling him every detail that he had imparted to the 
people of Keswick, had not the constable remonstrated, 
and pointed out that the time left was short. So he 
hastened away promising to row to both islands and to 
return with the things Michael would need. 

‘ For noo that you be the heir we must treat ye as 
such,’ he said; ■ and ’t is but fitting that your ain kith 
and kin should hear the last news o’ ye. I’ll be back 
afore lang, Bill Greenhow, and doan’t ye go a-lettin’ 
the escort carry Mr. Badcliffe to gaol till ye see me 
agin.’ 

Left once more alone, Michael’s thoughts returned to 
his father. Only a day or two before, in that very cell, 
he had felt that it was a hard thing to forgive the wrong 
that had been done him by his abandonment at birth. 
But now he was inclined only to remember the kindlier 
traits in his father’s character, which, just at the last, he 
had been able to see. His life had certainly been reck- 
less and selfish, but there was something in the idea of 
that silent fight in the fields between the Greta and the 
Derwent that appealed to Michael. If long ago his 
father had thought of drowning him, and had finally 
abandoned him higher up the Derwent, where it flowed 
through the wooded heights of Borrowdale, he had, at 
any rate, died fighting in his stead further down the 
selfsame river. 

True to his word, William Hollins returned before 
noon, bringing with him Michael’s brown peruke, the 
clothes he would need during his imprisonment, and a 
sealed packet from Sir Nicholas Badcliffe. It contained 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


3ii 

a purse with twenty gold pieces and a kindly worded 
letter, which greatly pleased Michael. 

1 Dear Nephew : 

Your kindly effort to save my brother hath endeared you 
to me. He has not treated you as a father and it was scarce 
to be expected that you could have a son’s feeling towards 
him. That you should have a second time run so great a risk 
for him, though sharing neither his religious nor his political 
views, touches me more than I can well express. Use the en- 
closed during your imprisonment to furnish whatever comforts 
are permitted, and let me know when I can in any way serve 
you. Doubtless Sir Wilfrid Lawson will ride over from Isel to 
see you and hear all that has befallen, and I am confident that 
so just a man will see that your blame in the matter was but 
small. Allow me to sign myself 

Your affectionate uncle, 

Nicholas Radcliffe.’ 

Slipped inside was a tiny, three-cornered note from 
Audrey, bearing only a few lines. 

‘Dear Mic: 

I well-nigh broke my heart at hearing of your death last 
night. Thank God ! I quickly found the news was false, and 
that you are alive and well. Have a care of yourself, and do 
not lose heart in gaol, and in any difficulty fail not to send 
word to thy kinswoman and old playmate, 

Audrey Radcliffe.’ 

With the reading of those words a great hope rose in 
Michael’s heart. After all, what did imprisonment 
matter if Audrey loved him, or might in time come to 
love him? Surely, surely, now that her love for the 
Under-Sheriff had been so rudely shattered, now that 
she found she had been in love with the baseless frag- 
ment of a dream, there was some chance that, as Zinogle 
had said, the ‘ Whirligig of time would bring in his 
revenges.’ 

And now there came the sound of horse-hoofs without. 


312 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and Greenhow opened the door and began to bind his 
arms, though not so tightly as on the night of the arrest. 
While the process was going cn, Zinogle, with his fiddle 
under his arm, boldly stepped in through the open door- 
way, and, with a pacifying word to the constable, ap- 
proached the prisoner. 

‘ So thou art off to Cockermouth gaol, lad/ he said. 
‘ Fm sorry to hear that, but it’s just what the old land- 
lord at Cockermouth prophesied when thou wert but a 
little chap. If you will go standing up for those that 
ye don’t agree with, you’ll hae mony a sair heid.’ 

‘ It can’t he helped, Zinogle/ said Michael, with a 
smile. ‘ Some of us are made that way. Besides, in 
this case it was for my own father. After all, “ blood is 
thicker than water.” ’ 

It’s wrong to speak against the dead/ said the fiddler, 
‘ but I must say that Mr. J ohn Radcliff e was a precious 
long time in finding out the truth of that proverb.’ 

c Let the past alone/ said Michael, with a catch in his 
voice. ‘ He took my quarrel upon him and was slain in 
mistake for me.’ 

‘ Oh, I’m not questioning his bravery/ said Zinogle. 

As far as that goes, he was every inch a man; ’twas 
moral courage he lacked.’ 

Michael made no reply, and the old fiddler, with a 
suspicious moisture about his eyes, watched him as he 
rode down the street with his escort. 

* All the moral courage went instead to the son/ he 
muttered, ‘ and all the heart, too. If ever there was a 
selfish dog it was Mr. J ohn Radcliff e, and we are not yet 
at the end of the mischief he’s wrought. Well, I must 
e’en hurry my stumps to the kirk, and he in time to play 
my fiddle in the psalm after sermon or the vicar will he 
hauling me over the coals. Strange things have come 
about in this place since I fiddled last Sunday. ’Tis a 
topsy-turvy world!’ 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Recollections of Michael Derwent. 

So much has passed since I last wrote that it is not 
easy to set down all with ink and pen. In my hand I 
hold a small note in Audrey’s writing and cannot refrain 
from thinking what a slight thing it was to work so 
great a difference. For during the last week it has 
twice chanced that I had to submit to the ignominy of 
being bound, and, though the first time the humiliation 
seemed to me well-nigh intolerable, yet it is wonderful 
how circumstances alter cases, for, on that Sunday 
morning, with Audrey’s little note in my breast-pocket, 
I felt quite indifferent to the cords with which Green- 
how made my arms secure. Strange that half a dozen 
lines in a woman’s handwriting can so affect a man’s 
whole w^orld! The words were vague enough, too, and 
pledged the writer to nothing; yet somehow the note 
had filled me with hope, and, as I made my farewells, 
even dear old Zinogle’s funnily pathetic face, with its 
smiling mouth and its wet eyes, could not send me on 
my way hither to gaol in anything but excellent spirits. 

At Hye Hill, as we rode past, Nathaniel Radcliffe sat 
reading in the porch where, a few nights ago, Audrey 
had sunk down faint and exhausted. Greenhow allowed 
me to stop for a few minutes and speak with him, and 
he, knowing well what Cockerttouth gaol was like, gave 
me a few practical hints, which I found useful enough 
when I got here. Moreover, as usual, the mere sight of 


314 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


his tranquil face did me good and seemed to lift me into 
a purer atmosphere. 

But I am rambling on with my more recent recollec- 
tions, when, as far as I can remember, the last entry I 
made in my book at Herbert’s Isle recorded how, on the 
night of my mo thing expedition, I encountered the Bor- 
rowdale Bogle and stood by the heck with knees un- 
steady and heart thumping in my breast, while the 
spectre, with upraised and grisly hand, approached 
me. 

Sitting now on a three-legged stool in a very ill- 
lighted cell in Cockermouth prison, I must try briefly 
to set down the outline of what has since happened, 
though my gaoler has procured me very indifferent writ- 
ing materials at a most extortionate price, and, more- 
over, writing in gaol is not easy, for there seems a weight 
upon my pen, and my brain works slowly and my words 
halt. More than ever do I now marvel at the wonderful 
book John Bunyan wrote in Bedford gaol, but the tin- 
ker was one of a thousand and I am but an ordinary 
mortal, and my pen drags on wearily, while I endure the 
stifling heat of a July day in an evil-smelling room 
scarce large enough to swing a cat in. However, I have 
the place to myself, heaven be praised! 

I had writ thus far when who should come to visit me 
but Sir Wilfrid Lawson. His jolly face looked graver 
than I had seen it for many a day, for the small-pox had 
given them much anxiety, though now, luckily, it has 
abated, and the stricken patients are getting about once 
more. 

‘ Well, Michael/ he said, ‘what is all this I hear of 
you? Sir Nicholas Badcliffe writes me that you are his 
nephew, after all, and that the truth has just come to 
light.’ 

‘ Ay, sir,’ I answered. ‘ No one but my father knew 
the truth of things save Father Noel, and his tongue 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


3i5 


was tied because he had heard of the matter in con- 
fession/ 

c 'Tis a strange story/ said the baronet, ‘and pretty 
Mistress Audrey hath been mixed up in it, I hear, and 
hath been jilted in consequence by the Under-Sheriff/ 
c Yes, sir; she had naturally enough been taking food 
to her great-uncle when he was in hiding, and had in 
fact played the part of the Borrowdale Bogle the better 
to disguise herself. I chanced to come across her one 
night, and so learnt the whole truth, and it seemed to 
me impossible to let her wander about like that alone, 
when the Under-Sheriff had set spies to track the bogle/ 
‘Ay, I see it all plainly enough/ said Sir Wilfrid. 
‘ You went to protect the lady and cared little enough 
for the Jacobite traitor, John Radcliffe/ 

‘ That is very true, sir. How could I then care for 
him? As to his views, I hated them, but I saw no harm 
in helping him to quit the country and aiding the kins- 
man of those who had ever been my best friends/ 

The worthy baronet laughed. 

‘ I told thee how it would be, lad, when thou wert but 
an imp of ten. An thou wilt champion everyone thou 
dost deem harshly dealt with, thou wilt not find this 
world a bed of roses. Bully Barton did his best to bat- 
ter thy skull for befriending the Quaker long ago, and 
now Bully Brownrigg will assuredly do his best to ruin 
thee for defending a J acobite/ 

‘ The Jacobite was my own father, sir/ I said. 

‘Ay, to be sure; when did he own that? I should 
like to have been present to see the Under-Sheriffs 
face/ 

‘He owned it, sir/ I replied, ‘on the night of our 
arrest, as we stood by the banks of the Derwent. He 
owned it in excellent time to shield Mistress Audrey 
when that vile Under-Sheriff would have set a scandal 
on foot about her. I would you could have heard my 


316 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


father’s voice as he stepped forward and said I was his 
son by his first marriage, and that it was surely the most 
natural thing in the world for Mistress Audrey to be 
protected by her cousin. That moment made up for all 
the years of dishonour. Had you been there, sir, you 
would understand how, after that, I could think of no 
differences of view, but only remember that he was my 
father and that he had sheltered Audrey from that 
brute’s foul slander.’ 

‘Yes, yes, it was all very natural,’ said Sir Wilfrid, 
‘ but why need you a second time run your chivalrous 
neck into the noose? ’ 

‘ My father thought that, if brought to trial, he should 
not stand a chance of escaping the gallows, sir. He 
asked me as to Cockermouth prison and the chances of 
escape from it. Then it flashed into my mind that if 
he meant to escape we might contrive it far more easily 
from Keswick. Well, you have heard the rest: how he 
changed wigs and clothes with me and got away out of 
the town, where, unluckily, the Under-Sheriff overtook 
him, and, mistaking him for me, induced him to fight 
and killed him. Have you any notion, sir, where Henry 
Brownrigg has fled? Squire Williamson only told me 
he had quitted the country.’ 

‘ No one seems to know,’ said Sir Wilfrid; ‘ and even 
were he brought to trial he would probably get off. I 
shrewdly suspect that he is by this time in London try- 
ing to get evidence against you, lad. And I am uneasy 
about it, for Mr. Wharncliffe once told me he thought 
you were rash in mixing over-freely with suspected 
people. However, we will not go half-way to meet our 
troubles. But I fancy that now you are heir of Goldrill, 
Henry Brownrigg hates you more than ever, and we 
must be on our guard against him, for he is as crafty as 
a fox. The one bright spot in the matter is that pretty 
Audrey Badcliffe is no longer betrothed to him. Take 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


317 


my advice, lad, woo her and wed her before the Under- 
Sheriff returns to spoil sport/ 

‘ Would to heaven I could, sir, but that is not so easy 
in gaol/ I said, looking round the hateful little cell with 
its heavily barred window. 

‘ Oh, we will have you out of this before long/ said 
Sir Wilfrid, cheerfully. ‘ Never fear, lad! And when 
you are free, why, remember the saying, “ Happy is the 
wooing that’s not long adoing,” * and with that he left 
me to meditate on this congenial advice and to dream 
over a future which in its brightness contrasted 
strangely with the gloom of my prison cell. 

It must have been towards the end of July that the 
news reached me in prison of how the French had in- 
vaded England, had burnt Teignmouth to the ground, 
had killed the cattle, and desecrated the churches, de- 
stroying altars and pulpits, bibles and prayer-books, and 
scattering the luckless people, who were quite without 
means of defence. However, such an insult roused all 
England. Everywhere troops of horse and foot were 
formed, while the Jacobites were execrated on every 
hand, and all loyal Englishmen were ready to cry ‘ God 
save King William and Queen Mary/ 

I was personally delighted with the turn affairs had 
taken, yet, no doubt, my own prospects were rendered 
more gloomy by the hatred of the Jacobites, which in- 
creased in bitterness every day. Sir Wilfrid even was 
fain to admit that this was the case, though he cheer- 
fully reminded me that the Assizes were not coming off 
yet awhile, and that in a place where I was so well 
known people were not likely to credit me with anything 
worse than the rashness of youth. 

But one night in August I was roused from sleep by 
the sudden glare of a lantern, and, looking up, found my 
gaoler shaking me by the shoulder. 

What’s amiss? ’ 1 asked, sleepily. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


3i8 

‘ You must dress with all speed/ said the fellow; ‘ the 
governor will be here anon to speak with you/ 

Grumbling at the trouble of getting up at such an 
hour, I threw on my clothes and saw, much to my sur- 
prise, that the gaoler was thrusting all my possessions 
into a couple of saddlebags. 

‘ What are you about, Ned? ? I asked. 

‘ Obeying my orders, sir/ he said grumpily, and not 
another word could I get from him. 

In a few minutes steps sounded in the corridor and 
in walked the governor; a very civil man he was, and 
owing, I think, to his liking for Sir Wilfrid, he had 
treated me kindly enough. With him was a stout, red- 
faced officer, whose uniform was buttoned so tightly 
over his portly figure that it seemed as if at any moment 
the seams might split. 

‘ This is the prisoner, Captain Plummer/ said the 
governor. ‘Mr. Kadcliffe, I have just received orders 
for your removal from Cockermouth to London, and 
Captain Plummer wishes to start at once/ 

He showed me the warrant he had received, and my 
heart sank, for I felt convinced that this was all planned 
by the Under-Sheriff. 

* Do you mean, sir, that my trial is removed to Lon- 
don? ? I asked, in some perplexity. 

‘ I know nothing more than you see here in this letter 
of instructions/ said the governor. ‘ But I should 
think that would probably be the case. Very possibly, 
too, your evidence is wanted at once by the govern- 
ment/ 

At this I could not forbear laughing. 

€ The government will be bitterly disappointed if it 
expects to learn anything of importance from me/ I 
said. ‘ Is it likely that any J acobite would confide se- 
crets to an admirer of King William and a Protestant? ? 

‘ Maybe not/ said the governor, ‘ but you are just dis- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


3i9 


covered to be the son of a well-known Jacobite plotter, 
and you must take the consequences, sir/ 

This was true enough, but it was cold comfort, and, 
as I stood there while Ned fastened on the manacles 
which Captain Plummer had brought with him from 
London, a chill sense of dread began to steal over me. 
These new-fangled gyves allowed a little more freedom 
than was possible with arms tightly bound to one’s sides, 
yet I somehow minded them more than the cords which 
Audrey had unloosed for me in the lock-up at Keswick. 
Oh, if only it were possible to see her once more before 
going to the south! That of course was out of the ques- 
tion, but I vowed that I would leave no stone unturned 
and would somehow contrive to send her a message. 

The governor of the gaol took leave of me kindly 
enough and said he would let Sir Wilfrid Lawson know 
of my removal; then, with the first grey light of dawn 
just streaking the eastern sky, we rode away from Cock- 
ermouth, Captain Plummer grumbling much at the ill 
road which made travelling by night no easy task. 

After the close confinement of the last few weeks, it 
was pleasant enough to be on horseback again, even in 
manacles, and, as we rode along the shore of Bassen- 
thwaite, my mind began to work busily with plans for 
reaching Audrey. 

At length I saw the battlemented tower of St. Kenti- 
gern of Crosthwaite rising from the trees that stood 
about it, and soon my heart was beating high with hope, 
for there, in the rosy morning light, lay Derwentwater 
and its wooded islets, and beyond was my beloved Bor- 
rowdale with the mountains that had from the very first 
been such good friends to me. It was still very early 
and hardly any folk were astir in the little town. At 
Hye Hill they were evidently sleeping; at the Royal Oak 
they were only just beginning to show signs of life. We 
rode into the courtyard and found a drowsy ostler wash- 


320 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


in g his face at the pump. Captain Plummer called for 
ale and bread and cheese, while the three men that 
formed our escort began to water the horses. I paced 
up and down the yard, somewhat stiff after the ride, and 
on the lookout for any serving-wench or stableman by 
whom I could send a message to Zinogle. At last, to 
my great satisfaction, I caught sight of the landlord’s 
little son. 

‘ Billy,’ I said, ‘ don’t you remember me ? ’ 

He lifted his twinkling blue eyes and looked at me for 
a moment. 

6 Yes, you are Mr. Derwent; leastways you was.’ 

‘ I’ll give you a groat, Billy, if you’ll hurry off this 
minute and fetch here old Snoggles, the fiddler.’ 

Billy darted off without a moment’s delay; a groat 
was untold wealth to him. He returned in about ten 
minutes, dragging poor old Zinogle after him in 
triumph. 

‘ The imp would scarce let me take off my nightcap,’ 
said the fiddler, ‘ and my mind misgave me all the way 
here that he was but tricking me. In the name of all 
that’s outlandish, how did you come here, lad? ’ 

‘ They are taking me up to London, Zinogle,’ I said, 
hurriedly, ‘ though whether to the Gatehouse or the 
Tower, I don’t yet know. But, depend upon it, this is 
the Under-Sheriff’s doing, and I fear things will go 
hardly with me out of Cumberland. I promised Mis- 
tress Audrey to let her know if anything happened. So, 
an you love me, Zinogle, go post-haste to Lord’s Island 
and tell her that Captain Plummer and his men are tak- 
ing me to the south. Bid her farewell for me, and 
say ’ 

But there I hesitated. What was I to bid him say? 
How could I possibly put into words just what I longed 
to tell her? To have done it in any case would have 
been difficult, but to do it in cold biood by the lips of 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


321 


a messenger was out of the question. Yet how hard it 
seemed to be dragged away to a London gaol with never 
a chance of letting her know all the truth! And, re- 
membering how desperate a struggle I had had to keep 
silent during our walk to and from the hiding-place 
among the fells only a few weeks ago, I was the more 
chafed to find words so difficult to frame now that it lay 
in my power to send her a message. 

‘ W ell, lad/ said Zinogle, with a smile lurking about 
the corners of his mouth, ‘ am I to tell Mistress Audrey 
all that I see writ in your face ? ’ 

‘ Yes/ I said. ‘ Tell her what I can’t put into words, 
Zinogle. You have understood me all along, old friend. 
Make her understand the truth, too. Tell her how I 
wish that we might have had again the chance I dared 
not take in Ashness woods. Tell her that all I kept 
from saying then I long to tell her now, and see that 
you say this, Zinogle — that as to my being heir to Gold- 
rill, that can make no change, since I will hold nothing 
that is not also hers/ 

f I’ll do the best I can for ye, lad/ said the old man 
earnestly; e but in truth I’m flayte, as the dales-folk say. 
’Tis a hard task you’ve set me. I’ll not linger noo, but 
be off to the island and have a crack with Mistress Au- 
drey before the tone of your voice is out of my mind. 
Good luck go with you, lad, and may we soon have you 
back again in Keswick.’ 

I echoed that wish very heartily, and watched the old 
fellow hurry out of the yard of the Royal Oak with 
envious eyes. 

c Come, Mr. Radcliffe/ said Captain Plummer, ‘ you 
had best feed while you may; we shall lie at Appleby to- 
night and have a hot day’s work before us.’ 

I followed him into the inn, pausing, however, to give 
little Billy the groat he had earned, and bidding him 
tell Zinogle where we lay that night, if he should chance 
21 


322 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


to see him again, for a wild hope seized me that perhaps 
Audrey might send me a message or a letter by the old 
fiddler, since in those days to send a letter by post was 
not a thing to be accomplished in our part of the world 
with ease, letters only being delivered in Cumberland 
once a week, and then always with risk of miscarriage. 
And all that hot summer day, as we travelled along the 
dusty high-road, I had a foolish feeling that Zinogle was 
following us, and whenever we paused to bait our horses 
I felt a pang of disappointment because he never ap- 
peared, as I had hoped, to join our cavalcade. 

Then I cursed my folly for having sent such a mes- 
sage, for, after all, though I knew Audrey’s love for the 
Under- Sheriff had been shattered, was it likely that she 
would so soon turn her thoughts towards one she had 
known all her life as friend and comrade? Alas! I had 
often heard that women seldom loved those they knew 
best. It was far more likely that in a moment of de- 
pression and indifference she would yield to the wish of 
her grandfather and wed the son of Sir Francis Salkeld, 
who, I very well knew, had long been one of her 
servants. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


It was still quite early in the morning when Zinogle 
landed on Lord’s Island and walked up to the half- 
ruined mansion. The servants were astir, however, and 
Betty, the housemaid, with clogs on her feet, and a big 
mop in her busy hands, was cleaning the paving stones 
in the hall. 

‘ Lawk-a-mercy-me, Snoggles! hoo ye do mak a body 
start! ’ she exclaimed, as the fiddler mischievously 
stole up behind her and gripped the handle of the 
mop. 

‘ A thousand pardons, lass, but Pm in sair haste,’ said 
Zinogle, ‘and want speech with Mistress Audrey on a 
matter of great importance.’ 

‘What! at this time o’ day? Man, she be sleeping, 
and I’m not the one to waken her, for she be sair spent 
since a’ the troubles coom aboot.’ 

‘ Nathless, Betty, lest worse troubles should come you 
had best go and rouse her. And here, as good luck will 
have it, the lady herself comes.’ 

He broke off, bowing low as Audrey hastily crossed 
the hall, her wistful grey eyes eagerly scanning his face. 
Evidently she had dressed with the utmost speed, and 
her hair hung loose and disordered all about her 
shoulders. 

‘ I saw your boat, Zinogle,’ she exclaimed. ‘ Is any- 
thing amiss? Have you brought news from Cocker- 
mouth? ’ 

‘ If I can have speech wi’ ye for ten minutes, mistress, 


324 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


I will tell you all/ said the fiddler. ‘ I was sent here to 
you with a message/ 

‘ Come into the study; Sir Nicholas will not be down 
yet awhile/ she said, eagerly. ‘ Is it good news or had, 
Zinogle? ’ 

The fiddler hesitated. He closed the door after them 
and sat down as she bade him on one of the old carved 
chairs. 

‘ Mistress/ he said, ‘ it is like most things in this 
world, neither wholly good nor altogether bad, but 
mixed. I was roused early this morning by little Billy, 
son of the landlord at the Royal Oak , and he bade me 
hasten at once to the courtyard to speak with Mr. 
Michael Radcliffe. I found him there manacled, and on 
his way, in charge of Captain Plummer and his men, to 
London, though whether he was to be sent to the Gate- 
house or to the Tower, he had not heard. Seeing clearly 
enough an enemy’s hand in this sudden removal from 
Cumberland, and having promised to let you know what 
befell him, he asked me to come to the island and tell 
you/ 

Audrey had turned deathly pale. 

‘ When once they have him away from his own neigh- 
bourhood they may twist and distort what has passed 
easily enough! ’ she exclaimed. ‘ Oh, Zinogle! if only 
I were a man and could travel there myself! What a 
miserable thing it is to be a weak woman, tied and bound 
by a thousand conventions, and unable to stir, however 
much one may long to help ! ’ 

‘ ’Twould scarce mend matters were ye a man, mis- 
tress/ said the old German fiddler, with a quiet smile. 

‘ Was that all the message?’ said Audrey. ‘Did he 
say no more but just that? ’ 

‘ Yes, he said more/ said Zinogle, gravely, ‘ and I 
would to God I could put it rightly to ye, dear lady. 
I’ve some skill with the fiddle, but none at all with car- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


325 


rying lovers’ messages. I would I could mak ye feel 
his words as I felt them.’ 

‘ Lovers’ messages, did you say, Zinogle? ’ she faltered. 

‘ Ay, to be sure, Mistress Audrey. It’s your lover he’s 
been ever since he was a little lad in Borrowdale. Sure 
you understand that much! If you could but have seen 
his face just now ’twad have told you more than any 
bungling words of mine can ever do. Think of the pity 
of it, dear mistress! For years he has loved you, and 
been forced to hold his tongue. Then, when seventeen 
months ago he heard of your betrothal to the Under- 
Sheriff, he looked like one that had got his death-blow. 
And now — now when Hope had come once more into 
his life, they whirl him away to London without so 
much as a glimpse of you, or the chance of a single word. 
Mistress, ’tis not every day that such a love as that is 
laid at your feet. You’ll be sayin’, maybe, that ’tis over- 
soon to think again of love and marriage, but for the 
lad’s sake don’t let pride and the thought of gossiping 
busybodies keep you silent, when silence means doubt 
and pain to him. And there were these words I mind 
me well that he said to me as we stood there just now. 
“Tell her,” says he, “hoo I wish I might have had 
again the chance I dared not take in Ashness woods. 
Tell her that all I kept from saying then I long to tell 
her now. And as to my being heir to Goldrill, that can 
make no change, since I will hold nothing that is not 
also hers.” ’ 

The colour came and went in Audrey’s face; her eyes 
were brimful of tears. When the old fiddler at length 
paused, she stole across the room to the open window — 
that very window through which John Radcliffe had 
climbed a few weeks ago, bringing by his advent so many 
changes into all their lives. She looked across the calm 
water to Skiddaw and Latrigg, and she remembered how, 
on that night of the arrest, as they had rowed along, the 


326 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


summer lightning had revealed their well-known out- 
lines, and how the sudden flash had revealed also that 
look of pain on Michael’s face, that glance in his hazel 
eyes which had recalled to her the wounded stag in 
Borrowdale. 

‘ He shall never have to bear one single pang that I 
can hinder/ she thought to herself. And yet how was 
it to be contrived? How could she do much for a man 
who, even now, had not definitely asked her to wed him; 
nay, who had not been able, save in the vaguest way, 
and through a messenger, to declare his love? Ah! if 
only there were some woman to whom she could turn 
for advice, some friend who would understand how it 
was with both of them! 

All at once she remembered how he had spoken to her 
of Mistress Mary Denham. She had heard, too, a little 
more of Mistress Denham’s friendship with him from 
Sir Wilfrid Lawson, when, a fortnight ago, he had come 
over to call on them and to discuss the arrangements 
that would have to be made before Michael’s trial took 
place. What was the tale he had told? — something 
about a lover or a friend that Mistress Denham had con- 
trived to rescue in the times of the Eye House plot, when 
he had been unjustly imprisoned in Newgate. A con- 
viction that she~could hardly have explained sprang up 
in her mind, that this unknown Mary Denham was the 
one being in all the world to whom she could freely open 
her heart, the one woman who would assuredly under- 
stand and know how to advise and help her. 

‘Zinogle,’ she said, turning to the old fiddler with 
wet eyes, but with a glow of hope in her face that did 
not escape his keen glance, ‘you are the best of mes- 
sengers. Tell me, if I got you a horse and the money 
you would need by the way, could you act as my mes- 
senger? Could you go to London, take the letter I am 
about to write, and wait for the reply, doing besides any 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


327 


errand in London that the lady I am writing to may 
see fit to entrust yon with? 1 * * * * * * * 9 

‘Ay, mistress/ said Zinogle, heartily, ‘I would go 
to the ends of the earth for yon, and for him that loves 
you. And if I have a fresh horse, why, His like enough 
I shall overtake Captain Plummer’s cavalcade on the 
way to Appleby, and might get leave to join them. ’Tis 
as well not to travel alone on the North road.’ 

‘ Then go and bid Betty prepare you some breakfast, 
and tell Duncan to row across to the farm and order the 
groom to put his saddle on Firefly in an hour’s time. 
Firefly is my own mare, so I have a right to do what I 
please with her.’ 

The old fiddler withdrew, and Audrey took writing 
materials from a desk on the table, and sat, pen in hand, 
vainly trying to put into words all that filled her heart. 
It seemed an impossible task that she had attempted, 
and one phrase after another was dismissed as too stiff 
or too free, till at length, in despair, she found that time 
was slipping away and that her sheet was still almost a 
blank. Then throwing aside all conventionalities, she 
wrote off rapidly the following lines: 

1 Deak Madam : 

You were, I know, a good friend to Michael when he was 

in London, and he spoke so warmly to me of all that you 

had done for him that I venture now to come to you for help 

and counsel. Strange things have passed here of late. The 

gentleman you knew best as Mr. Calverley, but who, in truth, 

was my great-uncle Radcliffe, proved to be Michael’s father, 

and Michael twice attempted to help him to escape to France, 

not that he agreed with his opinions, but because he wanted to 
help us. In consequence of the part I played in helping my 
uncle’s escape the marriage arranged betwixt me and the 
Under-Sheriff, Mr. Brownrigg, will never take place; indeed, I 
now see that it has, from the first, been only a mistake — I did 
not truly know him. Michael being very angry at some words 
which Mr. Brownrigg spoke to me when we were all arrested, 


328 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


called him out, but at the appointed time our Quaker kinsman 
persuaded them not to fight. Later on it seems that Michael 
tried to help his father to escape from gaol by changing clothes 
with him, and Mr. Brownrigg, deceived by the twilight and 
not altogether sober, insisted on fighting him when they met 
not far from Keswick. He slew him, thinking, of course, all 
the time that it was Michael, and it was not until he brought 
the body here that we discovered it to be my uncle Radcliffe. 
Mr. Brownrigg escaped, some say abroad, but others think to 
London, and Michael was removed to Cockermouth, there to 
await his trial for aiding and abetting the escape of a Jacobite. 
I have just learnt, however, that he is now being removed to 
London, and you will easily understand how greatly this adds 
to his danger. Here in Cumberland, where he was well known 
and where many understand just how things befell, he would 
have got a fair trial. But in London things might easily be 
distorted, particularly if, as we fear, his rival, Mr. Brownrigg, 
is working secretly against him. 

Dear madam, all this is, I fear, very incoherent, but pray, 
pray help us if you can. If only those in authority could learn 
the real facts of the case, I am confident he would run little 
risk, but I dread Mr. Brownrigg’s secret plotting, for a story 
like this can be easily twisted. Worst of all is the difficulty 
of letting Michael know the truth as to my own heart. It is 
only since that dreadful moment when I thought he had been 
killed that I knew what he was to me. And it was but a week 
before that — from words let fall by Uncle Radcliffe — that I in 
the least guessed that Michael had for years loved me. We 
had grown up together, and thoughts of such love as that 
never crossed my mind. I fancied that I loved Mr. Brownrigg ; 
nay, I did love him as far as I then understood what love 
means. Oh, if you would but tell me what I can do now! 
Michael hath sent me a message by old Zinogle ; I see from it 
that he loves me, yet to be wooed in this fashion makes my 
part far from easy. If I followed my impulse I should hasten 
after him to London; yet perhaps this might only injure his 
cause and make people think worse of me than they already 
do. And yet it seems to me that I ought to be there, for it 
was through my fault that he was mixed up in this affair, and 
oh, dear madam! I love him and would give all that I have to 
make up to him if possible for what he has suffered through 
me during these last years. Will you see him in London ? 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


329 


Zinogle will let you know which prison they take him to. Will 
you make him understand what is in my heart ? I cannot tell 
him in a letter. But I think you, being a woman, will under- 
stand, and will be able to make him understand, too. This is 
an unusual request to make to a stranger, but I seem to know 
you both through Michael and through what Sir Wilfrid Law- 
son has told me of you. Therefore I hope you will pardon my 
boldness, and 

Believe me, your obliged, humble servant, 

Audrey Radcliffe.’ 


Having folded and directed this letter, she sealed it 
with many misgivings, and then wrote a few brief words 
to Michael himself, taking refuge now in the familiar, 
friendly style which seemed most natural between them. 

Zinogle returned while she was still writing, and 
hastily signing her name, she began to give him direc- 
tions and to consult him as to the money he would need 
on the journey. All the time her heart was full of eager 
longing to go with him, and though she said not a word 
as to this, the old man had wit enough to divine it and 
went away from the island in good spirits, sure that 
matters looked hopeful for his godson. 

He frowned, however, when just as he was riding off 
from Stable Hills Farm he perceived young Mr. Salkeld 
approaching, for he knew that he was one of Audrey’s 
admirers, and that his suit had been favoured in former 
times by Sir Nicholas. 

‘Now, if three men all urge a woman to take a particu- 
lar course will she have strength enough to resist them? 
If they were villains urging her to do wrong, she would 
be as brave as a lion; but being all good men, and lik- 
able enough, will she he able to withstand their plausible 
talk, and all that they are sure to say as to the way in 
which her name is being bandied about in the neigh- 
bourhood? She’s a proud lassie, and if once they get 
upon that tack I fear me she’ll think more of her reputa- 


330 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


tion than of my godson’s heart. Women are strange 
folk! strange folk ! 9 

And musing after this fashion, the old man rode back 
to Keswick, where Billy informed him that Captain 
Plummer and his prisoner had taken the road to 
Appleby. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Zinogle heard of Captain Plummer and his prisoner 
at more than one wayside inn and at Penrith, but he 
did not overtake them. On making inquiries, however, 
as he rode into the quaint little town of Appleby, he 
learnt that they had put up at the King’s Head, and 
accordingly he handed over Firefly to the ostler of that 
comfortable red-brick inn, and made his way into the 
public room. There were some half dozen people pres- 
ent, all supping after the toils of the day, and sitting at 
table with them were the officer and his charge, who 
evidently were objects of great interest to the other 
travellers. Captain Plummer talked with his next-door 
neighbour, hut Michael remained silent, looking tired 
and depressed, and as though eating in chains was any- 
thing hut appetising. His face lighted up, however, 
when at last he caught sight of the old fiddler. 

‘ Why, Zinogle ! 9 he exclaimed. ‘ What do you make 
here? * 

‘ Fm on my way to London, sir/ said Zinogle, taking 
the vacant place beside him and calling for a plate of 
beef and a tankard of ale. 

Captain Plummer glanced at him sharply. 
c, Tis the finest musician in Cumberland, sir/ said 
Michael. ‘ Presently, no doubt, he will favour the com- 
pany with a tune on his fiddle/ 

Now, most fortunately, it chanced that the captain 
was a great lover of music, and when, after supper, 
Zinogle played to them very good-naturedly as long as 
they cared to listen, he was so much delighted with the 


332 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


fellow’s genius that he was perfectly ready to allow him 
to ride in their company for the rest of the journey. 
This, moreover, was a natural enough request on the old 
German’s part, for the North road was by no means free 
from dangers. It was extremely easy to lose one’s way 
altogether between Pontefract and Doncaster, while a 
lonely traveller always ran the risk of being attacked by 
highwaymen. 

‘ Eide with us to-morrow, by all means,’ said the cap- 
tain, as the company dispersed for the night. ‘ We shall 
be starting at six o’clock.’ And so saying, he went out 
into the passage to give some order to one of the men, 
and Zinogle seized the opportunity to thrust Audrey’s 
note into the prisoner’s hand. 

‘ You saw her? ’ he asked, his face lighting up as he 
put the letter into his breast-pocket. 

‘ Ay, and there’s much to hope and little to dread,’ 
said Zinogle. ‘-Depend upon it, lad, her heart turns to 
you. And in damp w r eather,’ he added, as the captain 
returned, ‘ the strings will play the very devil with you.’ 
He thrust his fiddle into its case and made as though he 
were entirely occupied with it. 

‘Do you play the air Hope Told a Flattering Tale?’ 
asked Michael, glancing at the fiddler with latent amuse- 
ment. 

‘ No, sir, it’s not to my fancy; a peevish, melancholy 
tune I call it. Give me a cheerful strain. Good-night 
to you, gentlemen; I shall be ready by your leave to join 
you at six in the morning.’ 

‘ Very good,’ said Captain Plummer, taking the candle 
from the chambermaid. ‘Now, Mr. Eadcliffe, I must 
trouble you to follow me.’ And he marched his prisoner 
upstairs, the maid looking after them with wide eyes, 
and shaking her fist at the captain’s portly form when 
she was quite convinced that he would not see her. 

‘ The hard-hearted wretch! ’ she exclaimed as she 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


333 


lighted a second candle for the fiddler, ‘ making a fine 
young gentleman like that sleep in irons! I wish Fd 
the ironing of him! ’ 

‘ Tut, tut, lass, he only obeys his orders/ said Zinogle, 
chucking her under the chin. ‘ Moreover, he hath a 
pretty taste for music. As to the young gentleman, 
don’t trouble your kind heart about him, for he’ll soon 
be through his troubles, being as innocent of Jacobite 
plots as you are.’ 

‘ You’re a fond, foolish old man,’ said the maid 
saucily, thrusting the candlestick into his hand. ‘ ’Tis 
not innocence that saves a man from the gallows. Many 
an innocent man has been hung. ’Tis interest with 
them that be in power, and the sharp wits of those that 
love the prisoner.’ 

And with that she began to sing the ballad of The 
Prickly Bush, which so took the old fiddler’s fancy 
that he would not go to bed until she had taught it him. 

Michael, in the room above, had found no opportunity 
of opening Audrey’s note, being never free from Captain 
Plummer’s observation. Tingling with impatience, he 
had to submit to seeing the candle extinguished, and 
there only remained to him the comfort of recalling 
Zinogle’s words and of clasping tightly in his hand the 
unread letter. Meanwhile, through the floor he could 
distinctly hear the weird tune of The Prickly Bush; 
nay, even the words were plainly audible in the maid’s 
clear voice, and then in Zinogle’s deep tones. 

‘ O hangman, hold thy hand, ’ he cried, 

‘ O hold thy hand awhile ; 

For I can see my own dear father 
Coming over yonder stile.’ 

‘ O father, you have brought me gold ? 

Or will you set me free ? 

Or be you come to see me hung, 

All on this high gallows tree V 


334 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘ No, I have not brought thee gold, 

I will not set thee free ; 

But I am come to see thee hung, 

All on this high gallows tree.’ 

Chorus . 

‘ O the prickly bush, the prickly bush, 

It pricked my heart full sore ; 

If ever I get out of the prickly bush, 

I’ll never get in any more ! ’ 

‘O hangman, hold thy hand,’ he cried, 

‘ O hold thy hand awhile ; 

For I can see my own dear mother 
Coming over yonder stile.’ 

‘O mother, have you brought me gold ? 

Or will you set me free ? 

Or be you come to see me hung, 

All on this high gallows tree ? ’ 

* No, I have not brought thee gold, 

I cannot set thee free ; 

But I am come, alas ! to see thee hung, 
All on this high gallows tree.’ 

Chorus. 

1 O the prickly bush, the prickly bush, 

It pricked my heart full sore ; 

If ever I get out of the prickly bush, 

I’ll never get in any more.’ 

‘O hangman, hold thy hand,’ he cried, 

‘ 0 hold thy hand awhile ; 

For I can see my own dear love, 

Coming over yonder stile.’ 

* O sweetheart, have you brought me gold ? 

Or will you set me free ; 

Or be you come to see me hung, 

All on this high gallows tree ? ’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


335 


‘Yes, I have brought thee gold,’ she cried, 
‘ And I will set thee free ; 

And I come, but not to see thee hung, 

All on this high gallows tree.’ 

Chorus. 

‘ O the prickly bush, the prickly bush, 

It pricked my heart full sore ; 

And now I’ve got out of the prickly bush, 
I’ll never get in any more.’ 


It was, perhaps, not unnatural that he should dream 
of his own execution, and of Audrey arriving just in 
time to stay the hangman’s hand, and bid them take the 
rope from about his neck; but just at the supreme mo- 
ment of rapture and relief as he caught her to his breast 
some noise roused him, and he started up to find him- 
self in a strange bedroom, with half a yard of chain 
connecting the iron fetters on his wrists, and with Cap- 
tain Plummer snoring loudly from behind the curtains 
of the second bed. The return to reality felt somewhat 
dreary, but nevertheless there was the letter still clasped 
fast in his right hand; the grey light of early morning 
stole in, moreover, through the white dimity curtains, 
and raising himself on his elbow, he broke the seal 
and read very eagerly the words which Audrey had 
written in such haste on the previous day. The letter 
was full of eager sympathy and anxiety on his behalf, 
hut dared he hope that she really loved him? He read 
and re-read it half a dozen times; it was frank, friendly, 
and affectionate, but he could not flatter himself that 
there was a word in it which she might not have written 
to him in his Cambridge days, before any thought of 
love had entered her heart. 

His spirits sank yet lower when at Knaresborough he 
learnt from Zinogle that young Mr. Salkeld had ridden 
up to Stable Hills Farm just as he left. And the most 


336 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


dismal visions of Audrey being won over by Father 
Noel’s arguments to the Romish Church, began to haunt 
him, while he could readily understand how Sir Nicholas 
would hail the idea of a marriage which would promptly 
silence the unkind talk of the neighbourhood with re- 
gard to Audrey’s escapade as the Borrowdale Bogle. 
Curiously enough, the only thing that seemed to cheer 
him was the strange, weird ballad of The Prickly Bush , 
for this was for ever associated with his dream at 
Appleby, and every night Zinogle used to sing it, to the 
great satisfaction of all his hearers, accompanying it on 
his fiddle in a fashion wholly his own. 

At length London was reached, and on a sultry 
evening towards the end of August, Zinogle took leave 
of his fellow travellers, and having learnt that Michael 
was to be taken to the Tower, repaired to the Blue Boar, 
in Holborn, where Firefly could rest her weary bones 
after the week’s journey, and where the fiddler found a 
rest in one of the upper dormitories. 

The next morning, as soon as he deemed it possible to 
go to the house in Norfolk Street, he delivered Audrey’s 
letter and asked to wait for a reply. 

The old butler seemed somewhat puzzled by his 
strange appearance. 

* Mistress Denham only returned yesterday from 
Katterham,’ he said, and after some hesitation he bade 
Zinogle to wait in the very room to which Michael and 
Lord Downshire’s chaplain had once been relegated. 

‘ There be a strange-looking old man, mistress,’ he an- 
nounced, ( awaiting for an answer to this letter,’ and he 
crossed the withdrawing-room, where Mary sat working 
at the household accounts. 

She put down her pen, and breaking the seal, looked 
with some surprise at the signature, then with keen 
interest read Audrey’s appeal for help and counsel. 
Having ended if, she sat musing for some minutes. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


337 


wondering how she could best help these lovers, and 
seeing clearly enough how difficult was the girl’s posi- 
tion. 

e I ncle and Aunt Denham are at Dr. Martin Lister’s, 
and will not be home till four o’clock; there is no possi- 
bility of consulting them,’ she reflected. ‘ I must some- 
how get an order to see Mr. Michael Radcliffe in the 
Tower, but I don’t know whom to ask. Perhaps the 
Wharncliffes will know; I will call and see them; and 
since this messenger of Mistress Radcliffe’s is a respect- 
able old man, he will do as escort. I need not trouble to 
take Anne with me.’ 

Hastily dressing, she went downstairs and began to 
question Zinogle a little as to what had passed at Kes- 
wick. And still talking over the strange events of the 
summer, they made their way to Mr. Wharncliffe’s house, 
which stood in a pleasant walled garden in Drury Lane. 

It chanced that both he and his wife were on the lawn 
at the back of the house, and Mary left Zinogle to wait 
within and, joining them beneath the mulberry tree 
from which they were gathering the fruit, told them her 
errand. 

‘ I can, you see, do nothing until I have seen Mr. 
Michael Radcliffe,’ she said. ‘ And I thought you would 
know to whom I ought to apply.’ 

‘ Why, that is reversing matters strangely,’ said Hugo 
Wharncliffe, laughing. ‘ ’Tis you, Mary, who knew so 
well how to get into a prison, and how to manage 
matters in the best possible way with hard-hearted 
gaolers.’ 

She laughed. 

‘ ’Twas easy enough to get into Newgate,’ she said. 
‘ But I have a notion that for the Tower a special order 
is needed.’ 

‘ True, I believe you have to apply to the Secretary of 
State. But, then, since my Lord Shrewsbury resigned 
22 


33S 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


office in the summer, no fresh secretary has been ap- 
pointed in his place. He, no doubt, would have been 
the man. I should think the best way now would be 
to go to my Lord Nottingham, and ask him to give you 
a letter to the lieutenant of the Tower/ 

‘ You will have to assure him that you don’t mean to 
aid and abet the prisoner’s escape,’ said Mrs. Wharn- 
cliffe, smiling. 

‘ Apparently that is what Mr. Kadcliffe himself is in 
prison for,’ said Mary. * And, then, to make matters 
worse, of course, he has a love story, which in his absence 
is likely to get into a hopeless tangle.’ 

‘ I will see my Lord Nottingham, and do my best to 
get a letter for you,’ said Hugo Wharncliffe. ‘ By the 
time you and Joyce have gathered the mulberries and 
thoroughly settled this north-country romance, I shall be 
back again. Perhaps the old messenger had best come 
with me. What a brow the man has! He looks like a 
musician.’ 

‘ I must come and see him,’ said J oyce, thinking little 
enough about Zinogle, but as usual following her hus- 
band to the door, loth to lose him even for the shortest 
time. 

‘ Don’t you remember, Mary,’ she said, rejoining her 
friend presently under the mulberry tree, ‘how last 
November, at Whitehall, Mr. Calverley, as we then called 
him, spoke of this grievance of Michael Derwent’s, and 
said it was some unlucky love story? Oh, how I hope 
that you will be able to set things right for them, as you 
did for us; that you will make two other people as 
happy, if possible, as we are! ’ 

‘ It seems to me that Mistress Radcliffe had far best 
come to the south herself,’ said Mary. ‘ Clearly she 
longs to do that, and if the case comes on for trial her 
evidence is very important. Well, it will be easier to 
judge after seeing the prisoner. Poor fellow, I fear he 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


339 


will not be so patient as Hugo was; he is of a different 
temperament, and with a good deal of the hot-blooded 
Welshman in him, I should fancy. It seems to me very 
strange that this Mr. Brownrigg could mistake his 
father for him. As far as I can recollect, Mr. Calverley 
did not in the least resemble him. Old Zinogle, the 
messenger, says their voices were exactly alike, however, 
and their height and figure the same. Perhaps, after 
all, in the twilight and with the change of perukes, it 
was not so unnatural/ 

They were still talking of the Cumberland romance 
as Hugo Wharncliffe had prophesied, when, in an hour’s 
time, he returned. 

‘ Here is your letter from Lord Nottingham,’ he said, 
smiling. ‘ Give that to my Lord Lucas at the Tower, 
and you will be admitted as often as you please to see 
Mr. Michael Radcliffe. His case is being inquired into. 
It seems that the government have been privately noti- 
fied that he is much embroiled with the Jacobite plot- 
ters. I fear the fellow was rash when he was here last 
winter and in the spring.’ 

‘Did you hear Mr. Brownrigg’s name mentioned?’ 
asked Mary. 

‘ No, but my Lord Nottingham said something of 
evidence against him having been gained from a well- 
known young Jacobite named Enderby, who says he 
met him in June, just after the King went to Ireland; 
that he is ready to swear that he was not only in con- 
clave with Calverley and Father Sharp, but that a lemon- 
letter was actually being written in the room under his 
very eyes.’ 

‘And I am prepared to swear that only just before 
Michael Derwent and Sir Wilfrid left us in the summer, 
he had heard nothing at all of such things as lemon- 
letters,’ said Mary, ‘ for I remember how much surprised 
he was when I told him about the ones that were so 


340 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


much perplexing the Queen. He had never heard, then, 
of lemon-juice being used for secret correspondence/ 

‘ Enderby is a featherpate and a chatterbox, but I 
believe him to be honest/ said Hugo Wharncliffe. ‘ Try 
if you can’t get the matter explained by Michael Rad- 
cliffe, for when the case comes on, it is sure to be used 
against him. Don’t hasten off yet; I have left the old 
fiddler having a crack with Jeremiah over a tankard 
of home-brewed.’ 

‘ And it is high time we all had our noonings,’ said 
J oyce. ‘ I will bring curds and cream, and we can eat 
them with the mulberries. Take Mary to see the roses, 
meanwhile.’ 

‘ To he sure,’ said Hugo, leading the way to a path 
at the side of the garden, 4 and you must see too how 
well the shrubs Mr. Evelyn sent me from Wotton are 
thriving. And, by the bye, you must not forget to 
wear a flower of some sort when you visit the prisoner; 
that was ever part of the programme. Don’t you re- 
member how, all through that winter, when you came 
to see me in Newgate, you contrived to wear either 
flowers or bright berries? ’ 

‘ Ay, and at Christmas, having with great care put on 
the best sprig of holly to he found, I learnt that it did 
hut remind you of the walk to Tyburn,’ said Mary, 
smiling, yet with a little choking in her throat, never- 
theless, as she thought of those dark days. c As for the 
flowers, Lady Temple had given me the free run of her 
greenhouses at Battersea, and I used to ransack them till 
the gardener grew to hate me for stealing his best 
blooms.’ 

‘Is Lady Temple at Moor Park now?’ asked Hugo 
Wharncliffe, thoughtfully. 

‘ No, she is in town for the sake of being near the 
Queen while the King is in Ireland.’ 

‘ It only struck me that, if private help is to get Mr. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


34i 


Michael Radcliffe out of his predicament, Lady Temple 
would be the best person living to give advice and 
aid . 5 

‘ True, that is well thought of, Hugo. She hath 
great influence with the Queen, and since the sad death 
of her son, the Queen’s friendship for her has been 
stronger than ever . 5 

‘ The son was her last living child, was he not? 5 

‘ Yes, and of course the shock of his sudden death was 
terrible. But I think Lady Temple is one of those 
that try to make the outer world the richer when their 
private world has been bereaved. She will he sure 
to interest herself in such a case as this of Michael 
Radcliffe . 5 

‘ And you, Mary, will, I very well know, hold a brief 
for his lady-love. By the bye, what is her name ? 5 

‘ Mistress Audrey Radcliffe; he is her first cousin, once 
removed. But as a matter of fact, they have only lately 
known that there was any kinship betwixt them, for 
his father only owned him at the moment of their 
arrest . 5 

Hugo Wharncliffe plucked the sweetest roses he could 
find for her, and then, while they sat under the tree, 
over their noonings, which Joyce had fetched on a 
dainty silver tray, old Jeremiah, the servant, went to 
fetch a sedan chair, in which Mary was carried to the 
Tower. 

‘ Don’t forget to come and play your fiddle to me this 
evening , 5 said the master of the house to old Zinogle as 
he trotted off in the wake of the chair. 

‘Ay, ay, sir , 5 said the fiddler. ‘I’ll sing you the 
ballad of The Prickly Bush. And I hope and trust the 
lady will contrive to get Mr. Radcliffe out of this prickly 
bush he’s got himself into . 5 

Hugo Wharncliffe smiled as he closed the garden door, 
and slipped his arm round his wife. 


342 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


c Mary will get him out if anyone can/ he said. c She 
has been helping unlucky folk out of the prickles of 
life for the last seven years/ 

‘ Yes/ said his wife. ‘ Somehow it always seems to 
me that she has begun her heaven down here/ 


CHAPTER XXXV 


Joyce Wharncliffe’s words were very true, and 
Mary Denham was always singularly happy when with 
the two whose happiness had been made out of the 
sorrow of her own girlhood. Nevertheless, as was but 
natural, her life was often lonely and anxious, for no 
one can go about helping, as Hugo expressed it, unlucky 
folk out of the prickles of life without wounding their 
own hands in the process. 

She had inherited, moreover, from her father — a 
cavalier of the type of Lord Falkland — a love of peace, 
and a craving for perfect freedom of religious thought, 
which, even in the more tolerant days in which she 
lived, made perfect satisfaction impossible; while from 
her mother, whose childhood had been spent under a 
harsh and unloving regime, she had inherited a certain 
wistfulness of temperament, not amounting to mel- 
ancholy, yet disposing her always to see the pathetic 
side of life. 

And thus it happened that as she was carried be- 
neath Temple Bar she shuddered at the ghastly row 
of heads set on poles, above the gateway, though 
most people had become perfectly callous to the familiar 
sight; and that, as her chairmen elbowed their way 
between the houses and the row of posts, which formed 
the only protection for chairs and foot passengers from 
the wheel traffic of the crowded city streets, she failed 
to get much diversion from the amusing sights that 
were not lacking, and was keenly alive to the misery 


344 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


and the selfish greed and the sin that weie all too 
visible. 

When they had passed St. Paul’s churchyard, she 
drew Audrey’s letter from her pocket and read it care- 
fully for the third time, wondering much how she had 
best set to work at the difficult task intrusted to her. 
Fortunately, she was the last woman to he daunted by 
the hardness of a task; she had long ago learnt to grasp 
her nettle, and Michael and Audrey could not have 
found a better champion. It was in this curious min- 
gling of strength and a most womanly gentleness that 
her charm, and the secret of her influence, lay. 

Her eyes filled with tears when, as the chair was 
carried acsoss Tower Hill, she saw from the window the 
very place where, seven years before, she had seen Alger- 
non Sydney butchered. How vividly the scene still 
lingered in her memory! Every tiniest detail seemed 
burnt in upon her brain: the vast throng of people, the 
cold, clear light of the December morning, the black 
scaffold, the grumbling executioner, who had asked for 
more than three guineas, because, forsooth, the patriot 
was of noble birth! And then — amid all the ghastly 
surroundings — the death that was like a triumph, the 
serene composure of the victim as he handed to his 
faithful servant the letter for Hugo, his watch for 
another friend, then knelt to say that c prayer as short 
as a grace,’ with which he commended his soul to God. 
Almost she seemed still to see him lying there with his 
head on the block, quitting the world with a smile and a 
pleasantry on his lips. For the executioner, anxious to 
know whether the victim had settled himself or meant 
to move any more, had cried out, with the axe poised in 
the air: 

‘ Are you ready, sir? Will you rise again? ’ 

And Mary had heard the reply in the clear, firm voice 
she knew so well: 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


345 


e Not till the general resurrection. Strike on! ’ 

Alone he had lived — for God and the people — and 
alone — save for God and the people — he had died. 

Arriving now at the lion’s gate, braced up for the 
present effort for justice by the remembrance of the 
dead patriot, she handed her letter for Lord Lucas to 
one of the picturesquely clad warders, and was admitted 
with old Zinogle as her attendant. 

It was one thing to come to the Tower as a pastime 
to see the lions, and quite another to pass under the 
grim gateway of Middle Tower and Byward Tower to 
visit a prisoner. Involuntarily she shivered at the gaunt 
greyness of the place. Up to the left, pigeons were 
wheeling and circling happily about the massive White 
Tower with its turrets and its hidden torture chambers, 
where in the past so many hundreds had suffered; while 
close to the path along which she walked rose the solid 
old Bell Tower, from which the curfew was rung, and 
within whose walls poor Lady Arabella Stuart had 
languished. 

Mary turned to the warder with a question: 

‘ Where is Mr. Badcliffe confined ? 9 

‘ He be in the Bloody Tower/ said the man. ‘ Up 
yonder is his window/ and he pointed to a small, late- 
Norman lattice, immediately facing Traitors’ Gate. 

‘ Why, that was Colonel Algernon Sydney’s room/ 
said Mary. 

‘Yes, mistress/ replied the warder. ‘This way, if 
you please.’ 

And he led them up a dark, winding staircase, and 
unlocked the door of a narrow cell, measuring about 
twelve feet by four feet. 

Mary saw that the prisoner was seated with his back 
to them, on an oaken bench. He was hard at work 
writing, and his inkhorn and papers were on the deep, 
splayed window-seat. Glancing round to see who was 


346 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


entering, he sprang to his feet at sight of her, and came 
forward with eager words of greeting and thanks. 

‘This is good of yon, indeed/ he said. ‘I never 
thought Zinogle would have gone to seek you and to 
tell you of my misfortunes/ 

‘ ’Twas no doing of mine, sir/ said the old fiddler; 
‘ I was but a messenger. However, I will leave Mistress 
Denham to explain that to ye, and will have a crack 
with the gentleman in the parti-coloured raiment out- 
side/ 

c Go and have a tankard of ale with him/ suggested 
Michael, ‘ and bid him set it to my account. Drink 
to my speedy release, Zinogle/ 

‘ Well/ said the fiddler, mopping his huge forehead, 
‘ I won’t deny but it’s hot work walking through the 
streets o’ London the first week in September. Many a 
time I wished myself back in the north country/ 

And he strolled off, humming the tune of The Oak 
and the Ash and the Bonny Ivy Tree. 

Mary, who all this time had been quietly observing 
the narrow cell and its occupant, could not help rejoic- 
ing to see how greatly the events of the summer had 
changed Michael. When she had last seen him, early 
in June, he had borne the look of one who struggles 
bravely on, trying his best to do his duty, but finding it 
uphill work. 

How, on this September morning, although he was a 
prisoner in the grim old Tower, and well knew that his 
worst enemy was plotting his destruction, there was an 
air of hope and brightness about him which she had 
never before seen. 

‘ I think/ she said, merrily, ‘ you are like King 
William. He looks sadly bored at court, but on the 
battlefield they say he is as cheery and full of high 
spirits as can be. You are far more cheerful-looking 
to-day than when you were with us in Norfolk Street/ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


347 


* It is because I have once more something to hope 
for/ he said. ‘You remember how I told you of my 
love to Audrey Radcliffe? Well, thank heaven, her 
betrothal to the Under- Sheriff is at an end, and I have 
been fool enough to dream that she might, one day, be 
my wife. Do you think the hope was too audacious? ’ 

* No, indeed/ she said, gently. ‘ I think it would 
be very natural that, having been wholly deceived in 
Mr. Brownrigg, having discovered in time that he 
was utterly unworthy of the trust she had reposed in 
him, her heart should instinctively turn to the man who 
has so long loved her in vain/ 

‘ If I only dared be certain that my hopes were well 
founded/ said Michael, pacing up and down the cell 
restlessly. ‘ You don’t know what it was to pass actually 
within sight of Lord’s Island last week and never to be 
able to see her.’ 

‘You did not quite understand what Zinogle meant 
just now/ said Mary Denham. ‘ He said he had come 
to me only as a messenger. It was as Mistress Radcliffe’s 
messenger that he came. She has done me the greatest 
honour one woman can show to another, and being un- 
able to meet you, and hear from your own lips what 
you would fain say, has asked me to see you and make 
you understand all that she cannot write in reply to 
your letter. Sir/ she smiled with a certain sweet arch- 
ness which for a moment brought back the youth to her 
face, ‘ I do not think you need trouble any more about 
the audacity of your hope. Your lady has wakened 
from a bad dream, and has learnt to look favourably on 
your suit.’ 

‘ What does she say? What does she say in your let- 
ter? ’ he asked, breathlessly. 

And Mary, after a moment’s consideration, put the 
letter into his hands, feeling that Audrey’s own words 
would best reveal her heart to her lover. 


348 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Michael caught at the sheet eagerly, and unfolding it, 
crossed the cell to the one small window, that he might 
the better see to read it. When he again turned towards 
her he looked radiant, and Mary could not but reflect 
that so happy a face could seldom have been seen within 
prison walls. 

‘ That is well/ she said. I am sure, now, that you 
understand her/ 

‘ There is only one thing left to trouble me/ he said, 
sitting down beside her. ‘ Zinogle met young Mr. Sal- 
keld, one of her suitors, on his way to visit Lord’s 
Island, and that means, I very well know, that her 
grandfather and Father Noel will be doing their utmost 
to persuade Audrey to accept him. He is rich, a Papist, 
and a very pleasant, good-hearted fellow. And you can 
guess how hard it will he for a girl to keep her head 
clear when such a kindly and clever priest as Father 
Noel does his utmost to entangle her in argument/ 

‘ True, that is a real danger/ said Mary, thoughtfully, 
‘ specially after the shock of all she has been through, 
and the bigotry of Mr. Brownrigg; but don’t you 
see from this letter how greatly she longs to come to 
London? And, indeed, I think her evidence will cer- 
tainly he needed/ 

‘ No, no/ said Michael; ‘ think of that long journey 
with all its dangers! And what could she do alone in 
London? Had her grandfather been fit to escort her, 
it might have been different, hut he is an infirm, old 
man/ 

‘ As I came here/ said Mary, ‘a plan came into my 
head. How do you think it would be if I went up to the 
north myself and brought her back with me? ’ 

‘ It would be heaven to see her/ said Michael. ‘ But 
the dangers of the journey would be as great for you, to 
say nothing of all the fatigue. ’Tis kind and thought- 
ful, like all your plans, but ’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


349 


‘ Oh! as for me, I am a well-seasoned traveller/ said 
Mary, laughing, ‘ and quite of an age to play duenna to 
Mistress Audrey Radcliffe. Moreover, it happens that 
my cousin Rupert and his wife are staying with kinsfolk 
in York, and I think, for the sake of helping me, Rupert 
would very likely consent to ride with me to Keswick. 
With him, and with old Zinogle, and my own old groom, 
who knows the road well, we shall be able to brave a few 
difficulties and dangers. There can be no doubt, from 
this letter, that Mistress Audrey longs to come, and her 
coming is only wise and right, for she did involve you 
lirst in this affair, and is the only one who can hear 
evidence at your trial. By the bye, Mr. Wharncliffe 
tells me that a young Jacobite gentleman named En- 
derby vowed you knew in June of the lemon-letters 
that were intercepted and brought to the Queen/ 

‘ You yourself were the first to tell me of the letters/ 
said Michael. ‘ But he is so far right that, on the very 
night before you mentioned the matter to me, Enderby 
came into my father’s rooms in Yilliers Street and 
spoke of the lemon on the table, as though it were a 
sign that he might freely discuss his journey to St. 
Germains. I puzzled much over the meaning of his 
words, and, of course, guessed that all three gentlemen 
were plotting King James’ return, but you know the 
air was thick just then with rumours of plots, and I did 
not feel bound to reveal to anyone words accidentally 
heard while on a friendly visit.’ 

‘I knew you would be able to explain the matter/ 
said Mary, cheerfully. ‘ It is clear that Mr. Brownrigg 
is secretly trying to poison the minds of those in author- 
ity with regard to your case, but we will outwit him 
yet. I think, however, it will be best to do things as 
quickly as possible, and if I can arrange matters at 
home with my uncle and aunt I will set off for the 
north to-morrow or the next day. So if you do not see 


350 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


me or hear from me for the next three weeks, you will 
understand that I am on the Great North road/ 

Michael could only reiterate his thanks, realising 
afresh how bright a day it had been in his life’s calen- 
dar when he first met Mistress Denham in her primrose- 
satin gown. 

‘ Are you well supplied with all you need?’ she 
inquired. 

‘ Yes, save with patience/ he said, smiling. f The 
days will seem age-long till you return.’ 

f I will write a few lines to Mr. Evelyn, and ask him 
to visit you,’ she replied. tf He comes to the Tower 
occasionally to see my Lord Clarendon. I hear there is 
a rumour that he is to be released on bail before long.’ 

‘ Perhaps you would also lend me a few books,’ said 
Michael. ‘ I try to while away the time with writing 
down my recollections, but ’tis no easy matter to write 
in gaol. Methinks other men’s thoughts pass the time 
better.’ 

Mary promised to send him her copy of Spenser’s 
Faerie Queen , and whatever other volumes she could lay 
hands on, and having called in Zinogle to discuss the 
likelihood of Firefly’s having recovered enough from her 
long journey to return the next day, she bade the 
prisoner farewell, leaving him in the best of spirits, 
and purposely forgetting to take away with her Audrey’s 
letter. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


Whei* Mistress Mary Denham once took a matter in 
hand she had a fashion of carrying it through at all 
costs, and spite of the unusually cold and stormy 
weather, which just then set in most unseasonably, she 
journeyed to the north and allowed neither wind nor 
rain nor bad roads to check her undertaking. They 
were forced, however, to sleep at Penrith instead of 
pressing on during the last day to Keswick, as she had 
intended, and when the kindly landlady of the inn 
helped her out of her dripping clothes, she was fain to 
confess that she was tired out. 

A night’s rest soon restored her, and, fortunately, the 
weather was, as the people expressed it, f taking up ’ 
when she woke the next morning, eager to set forth on 
the last stage of the journey. 

True, the sky was grey as they rode out of Penrith 
and looked hack for a last glimpse of the Castle and of 
the old red sandstone church, but as they journeyed 
on past Blencathara the sun shone out brightly, and 
Rupert, who had done little but swear at the bad 
weather all the way from York, now became once more 
a good-natured and cheerful companion. 

‘ Having dragged me against my will from the flesh- 
pots of Egypt, that is to say, of the Minster Yard, and 
done your best to drown me like all Pharaoh’s army, 
you are now, it seems, bringing me to the land of milk 
and honey itself/ he said, laughing, as they made their 
way through the exquisite wooded glen through which 
the Greta flows towards Keswick. 


352 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


And Mary thought he had not used over-strong lan- 
guage when, presently, a bend in the road brought them 
into sight of the little market town nestled on the shores 
of Derwentwater, with woods just mellowed by the touch 
of an early autumn, and mountains rising on every side 
as though to shelter this paradise from the rude outer 
world. They put up at the Royal Oalc, and Zinogle 
went off at once to Lord’s Island, bearing a letter to 
Audrey from Mistress Denham. As good fortune would 
have it, however, he had scarcely quitted the town, 
when, crossing the field from Friar’s crag, he saw Audrey 
herself, with Kitty, her waiting maid, in attendance, 
bearing a basket of food and medicine for some invalid 
in Keswick. 

‘ What, Zinogle! ’ she exclaimed, eagerly, hastening 
towards him as he dismounted. ‘ Are you back so soon? 
I had scarce looked for you yet.’ 

‘ I delivered your letter, mistress, and here is the 
answer,’ said the fiddler, unable to resist the temptation 
of watching her face as she read the missive. Its sur- 
prised delight rewarded the good-hearted old fellow for 
all the toils he had undergone, and his broad face was 
one huge smile of satisfaction as she took his hand in 
hers. 

‘ Dear old friend, how can I ever thank you for all 
you have done?’ she exclaimed, her face aglow with 
hope. ‘ Now I must come straightway and see Mistress 
Denham, and you must come with me to make me 
known to her. Kitty, give me the basket, and do you 
lead the mare back to the stable. Poor Firefly! she will 
not give you much trouble, being so spent with all this 
long journey.’ 

So Zinogle turned back again to Keswick, and on the 
way answered Audrey’s eager questions as to where he 
had overtaken Michael, how they had prospered on the 
road, what his prison was like, and so forth. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


353 


When, at length, they had reached the inn and were 
ushered by the landlady into a private parlour, she looked 
most eagerly into the face of the unknown friend who 
had ventured so much on her behalf and had responded 
so generously to her plea for help and counsel. 

Although it was not yet the middle of September, 
Mary had ordered a fire to be kindled, for the day, 
though bright, was very cold; she was sitting close to the 
fender, shaking out the long black feathers of her riding 
hat, which had suffered a good deal from the heavy rains 
of the last week. 

On hearing her visitor announced by the old fiddler, 
she rose quickly, and came forward with the most un- 
ceremonious and eager of greetings, which at once set 
Audrey at her ease and destroyed all her fears of the 
unknown fine lady from London. On her part, Mary 
Denham looked with keen interest at the girl who had 
claimed her help. Audrey, in her mourning attire, and 
with her wide grey eyes full of that unconscious appeal 
which one sees in the eyes of all who cannot put their 
trouble into words, instantly found a place in her heart. 
During the summer she had regained her health, and 
yet the delicate colour and the youthful contour of the 
face only seemed to make its wistful expression more 
marked. 

Zinogle left them to a tete-a-tete, and sitting together 
by the hearth, they soon learnt to know each other, for 
the friendship that may need years to ripen during an 
uneventful period, springs up with the rapidity of 
Jonah’s gourd when some crisis makes two people feel 
a real and instant need of each other. 

‘ I think your wish to be in London is perfectly justi- 
fied/ said Mary when she had told of her visit to the 
Tower. ‘Michael shrank from the thought of such a 
journey for you, but was quite at ease when I proposed 
coming here with my cousin, Rupert Denham ; to fetch 
23 


354 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


you. Then, if you will stay with us in Norfolk Street, 
I do not see that you need be exposed to any risk what- 
ever. Of course, though, you will like to discuss matters 
with Sir Nicholas Radeliffe/ 

‘Yes, hut my grandfather will not, I think, object/ 
said Audrey. ‘ I am now of age, and he knows that I 
shall never consent to change my faith or to wed Mr. 
Salkeld, for I told him so only yesterday, when some 
definite reply had to he made to his suit. That trouble 
is over; though you would scarce believe me, did I tell 
you all the arguings and reasonings we have had as to 
it. You see, it was Father NoePs great wish/ 

‘ Yes, and a very natural wish on his part/ said Mary. 
‘ Has he recovered from his lameness? Could you leave 
home now? * 

‘Yes, I am glad to say, he is walking about again, 
and will take good care of my grandfather while I am 
away. How can I ever thank you enough for coming 
here, all this long distance, and for making things so 
easy for me ? 9 

‘ Oh, as to the travelling, I like that very well/ said 
Mary, unclasping a little ivory fruit-knife and beginning 
to curl her feathers. ‘ And for our return I hope the 
weather may be more propitious. Tell me, how soon 
could you be ready to start? * 

‘As soon as the groom will let Firefly travel again/ 
said Audrey, eagerly. ‘ The less time we lose the better, 
for I dread the Under-SherifiPs secret scheming/ 

‘ Yes, there is no doubt that he is at work/ said Mary. 
‘ When I left the Tower, I went to see the wife of Sir 
William Temple, a very dear old friend, who has been 
like a second mother to me. She is one of the wisest 
counsellors I know, and it chances that she has much 
influence with the Queen, for Sir William Temple was 
the English representative at The Hague years ago. 
Her idea is to discuss Mr. Michael Radcliffe’s story with 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


355 


her Majesty, and tell her the whole facts of the case. 
If it seems well she will arrange that yon should see her 
Majesty, and yourself intercede for your lover, explain- 
ing how wholly free from blame he has been in this 
matter/ 

‘Oh!* cried Audrey, clasping her hands, ‘if only I 
could do something for him! It has been so cruelly 
hard to wait here since he has been in prison, knowing 
all the time that it was my fault he was ever mixed up 
in the affair/ 

‘ He would scarcely wish not to have been mixed up 
in it/ said Mary, smiling; ‘ for ’tis to the strange hap- 
penings of last July that he owes all his hope for the 
future. What a trying life his has been, and how curi- 
ously in the end the revelation of his parentage was 
made! By the bye, I should much like to see this Bor- 
rowdale of which he so often speaks; they tell me it is 
the most wild region in all England/ 

She could not, however, be induced to come and stay 
in the Lord’s Island mansion, knowing well that their 
arrival would perturb such a recluse as Sir Nicholas, 
and would he little convenient, to the young mistress 
of the house just on the eve of her own departure. 

Audrey induced her, however, to promise that both 
she and Mr. Bupert Denham would dine with them on 
the morrow, after which they might visit the dale and 
see the place where Sir Wilfrid Lawson had discovered 
Michael years ago. To everyone’s relief, the meeting 
between Mistress Denham and Sir Nicholas passed off 
very happily. The old knight brightened visibly as 
she talked with him at dinner, and afterwards he even 
ventured out for a few minutes to pace with her up and 
down the pleasance, and to talk with her about his 
granddaughter’s future. 

‘ The maid will not hear of wedding the son of Sir 
Francis Salkeld, which has ever been my wish for her,’ 


356 


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he said. ‘ And the marriage of her mother’s devising 
with the Under-Sheriff has, thank heaven, come to 
naught. No doubt, the happiest thing now will be for 
her to accept the suit of her cousin, and the sooner they 
are wedded the better. I shall raise no objection; in- 
deed, I shall be glad to have her safeguarded from Mr. 
Brownrigg.’ 

Mary guessed that the disappointment was much 
keener to the old priest, and she could not help liking 
him, because she saw that, although he had been check- 
mated, he took his failure so well, and evidently had such 
real affection for both Michael and Audrey. He and 
Rupert Denham rowed the two ladies to Lowdore, and 
they walked to the waterfall in the glen behind the 
mill, that the visitors might see how fine it looked after 
the heavy rains. 

‘ Come! ’ said Rupert, cheerfully; c this well-nigh 
makes up for the soaking we got on the road’ ; and in his 
jovial fashion he began to make Audrey laugh by de- 
scribing what he called the cavalcade of drowned rats 
which had halted two nights ago at Penrith. 

As for Mary, she wandered on, under Father Noel’s 
guidance, close to the fall, gazing at the wonderful 
mass of foaming w^ater, and trying to realise that this 
incessant downpour had been falling, falling in snow- 
like whiteness ever since the days of Adam, and would 
continue long after she and all she loved had passed 
away. Never in her life had she seen anything that so 
impressed her as those towering, perpendicular crags on 
either side of the cascade, and in presence of this grand 
bit of nature, as in the realised presence of God, all the 
differences of opinion and practice faded away into in- 
significance, so that she forgot the points on which she 
and Father Noel differed, and only drew near to him 
in the far greater matters which they held in common. 

By and bye, as they walked on to Borrowdale and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


357 


visited the place by the birch tree near the Derwent, 
where the Borrowdale foundling had been discovered, 
he talked to her long and earnestly as to the danger 
Michael stood in from a man of Henry Brownrigg’s 
overbearing and unscrupulous character, strongly ad- 
vising that if, as they hoped, Michael’s release was ob- 
tained, and the matter never brought before the law 
courts, he and Audrey should be wedded with all possi- 
ble speed that he might the better protect her. 

They ended their expedition by a visit to Anne Fisher 
at Grange Farm, and. Mary heard her description of the 
little foundling brought to her years ago by Sir Wilfrid 
Lawson; of how, from the first, they had been sure from 
the way in which it was clothed that it was of gentle 
birth, together with many details of Michael’s child- 
hood, over which the foster-mother quite forgot her 
northern reserve, and chatted in the raciest fashion. Nor 
was it possible to depress the good woman, for even after 
hearing of Michael’s imprisonment in the Tower she 
was ready roundly to assert that before long they would 
have him in Borrowdale again, since all his life he had 
somehow contrived to conquer difficulties and win his 
way when things seemed most against him. 

Her cheerful confidence comforted Audrey not a 
little, and carried her through the painful parting with 
her grandfather two days later. 

It was arranged that they should only ride as far as 
York, after which the grooms should stable the horses 
in the city, leaving Mary Denham and Audrey to travel 
in the coach with Mrs. Rupert Denham to London. 

To Audrey the journey seemed endless, but then she 
had never in her life travelled further than to Raby 
Castle. Fortunately, she was young and strong, and 
could stand a good deal of fatigue; moreover, her girlish 
devotion to Mistress Mary Denham made the intercourse 
of those days a keen delight, and when, on the Saturday 


358 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


night, they reached York, both Mary and her cousin 
protested that she looked far too cheerful to play the 
part of a distressed damsel going to rescue her lover 
from prison. 

After a Sunday’s rest and a visit to the minster, they 
started off by the public coach early on Monday morn- 
ing. It was anything but a comfortable mode of travel- 
ling, for they were pent up inside the springless vehicle 
which held six people and lumbered heavily along over 
the rough road, mercilessly jolting the occupants. How- 
ever, since the rain was falling heavily, it was something 
to be under shelter, and Rupert Denham and his pretty 
wife Damaris proved very amusing companions, some- 
what shocking two stately old gentlewomen who shared 
the coach, but eventually winning their hearts by their 
real good-nature. 

London should have been reached on the fourth day, 
but owing to the rain, and to a slight accident to one of 
the horses, which hindered them between Huntingdon 
and Hatfield, they did not arrive until the Friday. 

Mary looked a little anxiously at her charge, when, 
having dismounted from the coach, they drove in a 
hackney carriage from the inn to Norfolk Street. For 
Audrey, who had been so blithe and cheerful through- 
out the journey, seemed now, as they rattled over the 
paving stones in the crowded thoroughfares, to look 
worn and anxious. She could not have described the 
sense of deadly oppression that had stolen over her as 
she realised that in this city Henry Brownrigg was 
somewhere trying to weave a web of falsehoods which 
should entangle Michael and prove his ruin. Every 
moment she dreaded to see him, till at length she con- 
fided her secret terror to Mary, and was comforted by 
her quiet rejoinder. 

‘ Oh, that is not at all likely to happen. There is 
nothing to make him expect your arrival, and you must 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


359 


remember what a great place it is. You are not in the 
least likely to come across him.’ 

And yet, had they but known, even as she spoke 
these words, Henry Brownrigg, chancing to come out 
of the door of the Rainbow Coffee House , caught sight 
of Audrey, and amazed by so unexpected an apparition, 
followed the coach as it slowly made its way through 
Temple Bar and along the Strand, not resting until he 
had discovered the house at which it stopped in Norfolk 
Street. 

A pastry cook’s boy with a tray on his head had just 
left the door; he asked him the name of the owner of 
the house. 

‘Why, any fool knows that!’ said the lad, saucily. 
‘ Sir William Denham, to be sure, Mr. Countryman.’ 

Henry Brownrigg turned away with a frown to reflect 
on this new factor with which he had to reckon, and to 
arrange his plans, which now bid fair to be seriously 
complicated. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


Audrey was roused after a good night’s sleep by the 
strange cries of the London streets; she lay dreamily 
wondering what in the world { Colly Molly Puffe ! 9 re- 
peated again and again, could mean, until it died away 
in the distance and gave place to the more intelligible 
‘ New River water! New River water ! 9 This in its 
turn was succeeded by * Remember the poor prisoners!’ 
which completely roused her and made her jump out of 
bed and peep through the curtains. Down below in the 
street, with a large basket f astern d to his hack and a 
money-box in his hand, walked a thin scarecrow of a 
man, with an old, battered felt hat, a ragged coat, and 
knee-breeches tied with string. She guessed that he 
must be one of the prisoners from Ludgate or the Fleet, 
who were allowed to patrol the streets and beg for food 
or money, without which the poor wretches must have 
starved. 

Her thoughts, naturally, flew to her own prisoner in 
the Tower, and hastily dressing, she joined Mary and 
Sir William Denham in the breakfast room, for it had 
been arranged on the previous night that Sir William, 
who wished to see Lord Torrington in the Tower, should 
accompany them. 

It was, therefore, in the Denham coach that Audrey 
drove to visit her lover, and as they drew near to the 
Tower the colour in her sweet face rivalled the rose 
which Mary had pinned in her black dress. Here in 
this great gloomy place, which was not one tower, as 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


361 


she had fancied, but a great collection of towers and 
gateways, protected by battlemented walls and port- 
cullises, and by a vast moat which could be flooded if 
need arose, Michael was doomed to remain until the 
King and Queen had learnt the true facts of his case 
and had been persuaded to release him. Fortunately, 
she had absolute confidence in their justice, and her 
face was bright with hope as the warder led them up 
the winding stone stairs. 

c Mr. Radcliffe be taking his exercise on the leads/ 
said the man. f Belike, since the cell is small, you would 
liefer see him up there/ 

To this they gladly agreed, and as they emerged from 
the dark turret staircase on to the top of the Bloody 
Tower, Audrey saw her lover intently watching a great 
barge just passing by on the Thames. Her heart leapt 
within her when Michael came swiftly forward to greet 
them, his face radiant at sight of her. Then, after a few 
minutes* general talk and many eager inquiries as to 
their journey, Sir William and Mary considerately went 
with the warder to call upon Lord Torrington, who, 
since the battle of Beachy Head, had been kept prisoner, 
and was awaiting his trial for his unworthy conduct 
on that disastrous day. As they disappeared down the 
staircase Audrey glanced half shyly round the battle- 
mented roof. 

‘ They do not give you much space to walk in/ she 
said, looking anxiously at him to see how he had stood 
the discomforts of prison life. 

‘I have all I need/ he said, lifting her hand to 
his lips. ‘ The comfort I hungered for was brought 
me by Mistress Denham in the assurance of your 
love.* 

‘ Oh, Mic/ she cried, her eyes filling with tears, ‘ you 
will never know how sorely I longed to come with 
Zinogle. But I dared not; I feared it might do your 


362 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


cause harm. And when I tried to write to you, some- 
how the words would not come/ 

e My beloved ! 4 * * * * 9 he exclaimed, taking her in his arms, 
‘ I hardly yet know how to believe that you indeed can 
care for me. I have loved you all my life, and when we 
were at Raby I dared to hope that you, too, cared. When 
that proved a vain dream ’ 

‘ Oh, hush ! 9 she said. ‘ Do not make me think again 
of the mistake that has cost us all so much. I was de- 
ceived, and that night of the arrest would gladly have 
died. And yet, Mic, there was a worse time even than 
that. It was when I heard that you were dead, and for 
the first time understood all you were to me/ 

* Did that make you care ? ? he exclaimed. 

* It made me understand my own heart/ she replied, 
‘ and for some days I had been learning to see what you 
really were. Oh, Mic! if you were but out of prison, all 
now would be well/ 

‘ I scarcely think I am in prison just this minute/ he 
said, raining kisses on her face. ‘ As Colonel Lovelace 
sang: 

“ Stone walls do not a prison make 
Nor iron bars a cage.” 

4 Dost remember his lines? ’ 

* Yes/ she said, humming the air softly. * And yet, 
all the same, dear heart, I long to have you away from 
this grim prison/ 

‘ ? Tis not half so cruel a place as I was in when last 
I heard you sing/ he said with a smile. ‘ Shall I ever 
forget that night when Father Noel forced me to come 

into the withdrawing-room while you were singing, 
“ See the chariot at hand here of love ” ? * Audrey clung 
to him more closely. 

‘ Mic, it terrifies me/ she faltered, tf to think how little 

we really know what is going on all about us. I must 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


363 


so often have hurt you, though I little dreamt it. And 
all round us people were scheming and plotting while 
everything seemed to me clear and simple. It frightens 
me now, for now truly we know that the Under-Sheriff 
is almost certainly planning your ruin/ 

c The past should give you confidence/ he replied, 
cheerfully. ‘ See how all the plots have come to naught! 
Oh, we shall baffle them yet, I trust, and when I am free, 
why, then, Audrey, I will beg you to end this time of 
waiting and to be my wife at once. Then together we 
can journey back to the north country/ 

‘ Indeed/ she said, blushing. ‘ Mistress Denham and 
my grandfather agreed that it would be the safest 
course. And next week I trust to have an interview 
with her Majesty, if it can be arranged/ 

‘ Have you yet seen Lady Temple? ? 
c Ho, there is some idea that we shall see her after 
service at the Abbey to-morrow. She always goes there 
when at her house at Battersea, and Mary says I must 
tell her the whole tale, so that she may be able to inter- 
est the Queen/ 

‘ Yet, if you drew a really truthful picture/ he said, 
beginning to laugh, ‘ her Majesty would scarce be moved 
to pity. For never, I am sure, was there in this Bloody 
Tower a more thoroughly happy man than I am. Think 
of the two little princes murdered here; of Sir Walter 
Raleigh, who spent one of his imprisonments in the 
room below; of Archbishop Laud, and of Algernon 
Sydney, who, from the very cell in which I sleep, went 
to the scaffold. Hark! I hear steps on the stairs; they 
have ended their visit to my Lord Torrington. How 
comes the hard part of prison life — the parting from 
you ! 9 

When the Denhams came out on the leads, the two 
lovers were standing sedately by the battlements, ap- 
parently studying the shipping on the river; but Mary 


3 6 4 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


was quite at rest about them when they turned to in- 
quire after Lord Torrington, for Audrey’s happy face 
was crimson, and in Michael’s eyes there was the light 
which is only seen in the eyes of an accepted lover. 

They drove back to Norfolk Street in excellent spirits, 
and as they stepped from the coach, a poor old beggar, 
bent and crippled, held out his hand for alms; Audrey 
dropped a penny into it, being in her happiness very 
tender-hearted. But as they went upstairs Mary Den- 
ham warned her not to give to street beggars, since the 
London streets were full of impostors. As a matter of 
fact, the cripple became straight and alert directly he 
had reached the Strand, and in a wonderfully short 
space of time was making his way up the steep stairs of 
a house in a remote corner of the city. 

Here he was admitted into the presence of no less a 
person than Mr. Under-Sheriff Brownrigg. 

‘ I watched the house, sir,’ he said, ‘ as you directed, 
and Sir William Denham, together with two ladies, 
drove to the Tower; they have now just returned.’ 

‘ Let me hear you describe the ladies,’ said the Under- 
Sheriff, refilling his pipe. 

‘ The elder, sir, might have been about thirty, had 
dark hair, and wore a large hat with curling feathers 
about the brim. The other was younger and fairer, and 
wore a mourning dress.’ 

‘ Good! that will do. Go early to-morrow and bring 
me word directly the two ladies go out. They will 
probably attend some church; find out which they go 
to, and come quickly and let me know.’ 

Accordingly, on Sunday morning, the beggar again 
stood in Norfolk Street and asked for alms as the ladies 
stepped into the coach. 

This time, however, Audrey shook her head, remem- 
bering Mary’s warning, and the spy, with an air of 
abject misery, stood whining by the carriage-door, listen- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 365 

ing intently, however, to Mistress Denham’s directions 
to the footman. 

‘ To the Abbey/ she said, and having seen the horses 
turned towards Westminster, the cripple cheerfully re- 
paired to the city to receive the Under- Sheiiff’s pay, to- 
gether with instructions to call the next morning at 
nine o’clock. 

When the fellow had gone, Henry Brownrigg, com- 
pletely transformed by a red wig and the attire of a 
London tradesman, repaired to Westminster Abbey, and 
with some difficulty succeeded in discovering Audrey’s 
whereabouts. All through the sermon he watched her 
intently, and afterwards had the satisfaction of seeing 
her waiting about with her companion in the nave. He 
lingered as near them as he dared, and presently saw 
Mistress Denham speak to a very fine-looking old lady, 
dressed in deep mourning, who came down the steps out 
of the choir. Turning his back to them, he appeared 
to be closely studying the carving upon the screen, and 
fortune seemed to favour him, for, to escape the rest 
of the congregation as they filed down the steps, Mis- 
tress Denham moved further aside, so that he was well 
within earshot of the little group. 

‘ Lady Temple,’ he heard her say, ‘ I want to present 
to you my friend, Mistress Audrey Badcliffe. We won- 
dered whether it would be convenient to you some day 
to have a talk with her.’ 

f By all means, my dear,’ said a sweet, clear voice. 
‘ Indeed, the less time we lose the better, for it is im- 
portant that the Queen learns all as soon as possible. 
Come to my house in Battersea to-morrow afternoon at 
four o’clock. It is the only free afternoon this week.’ 

‘ Unfortunately, I have promised to drive with my 
aunt to Enfield Chase,’ said Mary Denham. ‘ Yet it is 
important that no time be lost.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Lady Temple, ‘ especially as I shall wait 


366 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


upon her Majesty on Tuesday. How would it be if 
Mistress Radcliffe came to my house in a chair? Then 
we could have a quiet talk together, and she could be 
back in Norfolk Street by the time you return from 
Enfield/ 

‘Should you mind that?’ said Mary. ‘You have 
probably never seen a sedan chair, but they are really 
very comfortable and will take you without any trouble, 
on your part, from house to house/ 

‘ I should like to go in one/ said Audrey, who always 
enjoyed a novel experience. 

So it was arranged that she should pay the visit, as 
Lady Temple suggested, and the three ladies walked 
down the nave together to the west door, leaving Henry 
Brownrigg to saunter slowly down the north aisle, cud- 
gelling his brains as to the best way to defeat these 
womenfolk who were doing their best to free his rival. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


e I told Michael that the thought of all the plotting 
and scheming that had gone on in the past terrified 
me/ said Audrey, the next day, as she sat in Mary Den- 
ham’s room, while her friend dressed for the expedition 
to Enfield Chase. ‘ But now it seems to me that we 
are at an end of all the bad schemes, and everyone is 
only planning how to help us. How good it is of you 
and Lady Temple to take all this trouble for us! ’ 

‘ I am sure/ said Mary, brightly, ‘ that it is to Lady 
Temple, as it has been to me, nothing hut a pleasure. 
I am glad, too, that you will be alone with her to-day; 
you will find it more easy to tell her all about the past. 
And, indeed, she will enjoy having you. You know 
she has lost her children, and I think the sight of you 
will he a great refreshment to her. At Moor Park she 
has the company of her widowed daughter-in-law and 
of her grandchildren, but here she is sad and lonely 
enough.’ 

Just then the maid came to announce that the coach 
was at the door, and Mary turned to give a farewell kiss 
to her guest. 

c I must not keep my aunt waiting/ she said. 
‘ Thomas will see you safely into the chair, and will 
direct the men to Lady Temple’s house, and I dare say 
by the time you come hack we shall have returned too. 
Good-bye, and good luck to you, dear.’ 

She ran downstairs, while Audrey retired to her own 
room and finished a letter to her grandfather, telling 


368 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


him of her betrothal to Michael, describing their visit 
to the Tower, and telling him of the call she was about 
to pay. Then, at three o’clock, feeling very nervous at 
the prospect of her interview with Lady Temple, she 
went downstairs, and for the first time in her life got 
into a sedan chair. It had been carried into the hall, 
and the old butler was giving the chairmen directions as 
to the exact place in Battersea where the house stood. 
They said they knew it well, and Audrey for the time 
forgot her fears in the curious experience of having 
the lid put on to the box in which she was cooped, and 
in feeling the swaying movement of the chair as the 
bearers lifted it and trotted along the street. There 
was much to amuse her, moreover, in the crowded 
thoroughfares, which she could see through the win- 
dows as she was borne along, and to her country-bred 
eyes London seemed a most enchanting place. It was 
not until she was carried up the well-planted carriage 
drive which led to Sir William Temple’s house at Bat- 
tersea that she began to feel a little alarmed at the 
prospect of her interview, and her heart beat uncomfort- 
ably fast when the great doors were swung wide to allow 
her chairmen to enter and set down their burden in the 
great entrance hall. 

She ordered them to return in half an hour, and they 
left the chair and went off, while Audrey was conducted 
by the butler through a stately withdrawing-room into 
a smaller room beyond, where she found Lady Temple 
seated at a reading-stand, whereon lay a volume called 
the Story of China by Fernando Mendez Pinto. At her 
feet lay a huge mastiff, who rose with his mistress to 
receive the visitor, and sniffed at her with approval as 
she curtseyed low. 

Lady Temple had the most charming manner, and 
speedily made her entirely at her ease. Her beautiful 
dark eyes grew soft and tender as the girl, little by little, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


369 


told the whole story of her betrothal to Henry Brown- 
rigg and of the manner in which he had jilted her. It 
was easy enough to understand the rough awakening 
through which she had passed, and the revelation which 
had come to her when she imagined that Michael had 
been killed. 

‘ If, as seems likely/ said Lady Temple, ‘ Mr. Brown- 
rigg is indeed in London and trying secretly to prejudice 
Mr. Michael Radcliffe’s case, he will at any rate he un- 
able to appear openly, or he might be arrested for caus- 
ing the death of your uncle in the duel/ 

‘ Yes, that is all clear gain to us/ said Audrey. ‘ He 
dare not show himself openly. Yet I fear he must still 
be doing his utmost to harm Michael, for otherwise 
people say he would never have been removed from 
Cockermouth, seeing how simple the case against him 
really is/ 

‘ You are ready to swear that he has no Jacobite lean- 
ings? ’ said Lady Temple. 

‘ Yes, perfectly ready. Michael has ever been one of 
King William’s admirers, and though they tried their 
utmost to make a Papist of him they failed/ 

‘ To be sure, I recollect Mary Denham told me some- 
thing of that. Well, I hope to see her Majesty at Ken- 
sington to-morrow and will tell her your story. May I 
mention that you are now betrothed to Mr. Michael 
Radcliffe? 9 

‘ We were actually betrothed on Saturday/ said Au- 
drey, blushing rosy-red. 

f So much the better/ said Lady Temple, smiling. 
c Her Majesty is a true woman and loves a romance. I 
shall tell her your tale, and try to get an audience for 
you with the King/ 

f With his Majesty! ’ exclaimed Audrey, looking much 
alarmed at the prospect. 

* That would be by far the best plan/ said Lady 
24 


37 <> 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Temple. ‘ And my dear, you need fear nothing. 
Though brusque of manner, his Majesty is just and 
tolerant; moreover, he is quick at reading character, 
and I think you would do well, if possible, to plead y«ur 
lover’s cause yourself.’ 

It was a formidable prospect for one so little versed 
in the ways of the world. Still, to be able to serve 
Michael was the keenest pleasure Audrey had known for 
many a day, and as she parted with her kindly hostess 
her spirits rose at the thought of the work before 
her. 

‘You think her Majesty will indeed give me audi- 
ence? ’ she asked wistfully. 

‘ I do not for a moment doubt it, my dear,’ said Lady 
Temple, touched by the anxious expression of the sweet 
young face. ‘ The Queen has the kindest of hearts, and 
I have very little doubt that you will soon see Mr. Ead- 
cliffe set at liberty.’ 

The words and the kind, motherly look which went 
with them sent Audrey away with a heart full of grati- 
tude and hope. As once more she stepped into her chair 
and was borne down the drive it seemed to her that their 
troubles were at length almost at an end, and she could 
have sung for sheer happiness as her bearers trotted 
along through the roads and lanes between Battersea 
and Southwark, for in those days London Bridge was 
the only one across the river. 

All at once she was recalled from her pleasant imag- 
inings by feeling that her men were slackening their 
pace. Looking out of the window, she saw that they 
were in a quiet lane and that the men were pausing 
before a lonely house standing in a walled garden. 

To her amazement, their arrival seemed to he ex- 
pected, for the door was flung open, and the men taking 
no heed whatever of her rapping on the window and 
calling out that they were taking her to the. wrong 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


371 


house, carried the chair right in and set it down in the 
lobby. 

Then all at once she realised that, although a sedan 
chair may he a most comfortable convenience, it has 
one serious drawback: when once you are shut into it 
you are absolutely at the mercy of other people, and can 
by no possibility get free without help. All the tales 
she had ever heard of wicked cities and of luckless 
ladies decoyed into dangerous places, came suddenly 
back to her memory. Her sole hope seemed to be with 
the chairmen, for she had heard Mistress Denham 
specially order old Thomas to see that steady men they 
had employed before, were chosen. 

< Take me out/ she cried. ‘ Carry me to Norfolk 
Street, and Sir William Denham will reward you/ 

And at that the bearers for an instant showed them- 
selves at the window to shake their heads and reject the 
offer. 

‘ Doan’t be afraid, missus; you’re safe enough/ said 
one; and Audrey, to her horror, noticed for the first 
time that they were not the men who had brought her, 
though they were dressed in precisely the same clothes. 

It was but for a moment that she saw them; then they 
tramped across the lobby, and Audrey heard the opening 
and closing of the front door; after that an ominous 
silence reigned in the house. 

The horror of this was almost more than she could 
endure. Covering her face with her hands, she tried 
desperately to think what she could do. Quiet as the 
place was, she could scarcely imagine it to be empty, for 
who had opened the door to them in that mysterious 
fashion as they entered? Would it be possible for her 
to break the glass of the window and crawl through the 
aperture? She glanced up to see how this plan would 
work, starting violently as she perceived a woman’s face 
looking in at her. Had it been a good face she would 


372 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


have welcomed it, but it was as hard as a stone, and she 
knew that she need expect no help from the owner of 
that thin-lipped mouth and those steely eyes, with their 
subtle, crafty expression. She was horribly frightened, 
but some instinct made her conceal her fear. She 
rapped imperiously on the window. 

‘ Let me out! ’ she said. ‘ There is some mistake/ 

‘ I can’t let you out, mistress, until you give me your 
word you’ll go quietly upstairs. There is no one in the 
house, and you shall not come to any harm. I will ex- 
plain everything to you upstairs.’ 

Audrey was silent for a minute. It was clearly im- 
possible that she should remain boxed up in the chair; 
on the other hand, she dreaded the idea of going further 
from the front door. Still the idea of an explanation 
tempted her, and at length she consented to go. 

The woman removed the top of the chair and set her 
free; then grasping her by the arm, led her swiftly up 
the uncarpeted staircase. The house seemed to be, as 
she said, quite uninhabited, and the rooms they passed 
by had no furniture in them. But when, at length, 
Audrey was led into one of the back rooms at the top 
of the fourth flight of stairs, she found that a small 
truckle-bed had been prepared, together with a few of 
the bare necessaries of life. 

* Now explain things to me,’ she said breathlessly. 
‘ What do you mean by dragging me up here? ’ 

‘ I am but obeying my orders, mistress,’ said the 
woman in a surly tone. ‘ I’ll bring you some supper 
anon. And belike you’ll find the explanation yonder.’ 

She pointed across the room to a small table on which 
lay a letter, and as Audrey hastily stepped forward and 
opened it her gaoler beat a retreat, locking and bolting 
the door on the outer side. 

The letter bore neither address nor signature, but in 
spite of certain studied differences, Audrey was sure that 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


373 


the writing was Henry Brownrigg’s. She breathed more 
freely. Little as she had reason to trust him, she knew 
that there were certain things she need never fear from 
him. And the terror that had overwhelmed her when 
she first realised that she had been kidnapped and was 
utterly alone and helpless in this great city, gave place 
to calmer thoughts as she read the following lines: 

‘Have no fear; you are perfectly safe in this house 
and no one will molest you. But you must remain a 
prisoner for the present until certain other plans have 
been successfully carried out/ 

Clearly Henry had learnt of her visit to the Tower 
and feared that his efforts to criminate Michael would 
be checkmated. He had even perhaps learnt that she 
was to see the King and Queen, and had determined at 
all costs to prevent the interview from taking place. 

Her brain reeled as she read the words over again: 
‘ You must remain a prisoner for the present/ 

How long did he intend to keep her shut up in this 
awful solitude? And would he succeed in these other 
plans that he spoke of? They could only be plans to 
harm her lover, and the thought of her impotence to 
help, made her almost desperate. She rushed to the 
door, trying in vain to make the lock yield; she went 
back to the window, but escape from that seemed hope- 
less too, for it was high above the ground, and nothing 
was to be seen from it save a large ill-kept garden 
bounded by high red-brick walls and apparently given 
up chiefly to apple and pear trees, while beyond a few 
tall elms effectually shut out any distant view. Where- 
abouts she was she had no idea except that she recol- 
lected that they must still be on the Battersea side of 
the river. To all intents and purposes, she might have 
been in the heart of the desert, for no cry for help, no 
signal to any other human being was possible. From 
actual danger it might be true that she was safe enough, 


374 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


but from the torture of loneliness and anxiety and utter 
helplessness there was no deliverance. Worn out with 
all she had endured, she threw herself on the bed in a 
passion of tears. 

Michael, who would have been her natural deliverer, 
was himself fast in the Tower; Mary Denham and Lady 
Temple, with the kindest hearts in the world, could 
scarcely hope to trace out the conspiracy to which she 
had fallen a victim, for not only were they utterly in the 
dark as to Henry Brownrigg’s whereabouts, but they 
did not even know him by sight. It seemed to her, as 
she lay there sobbing her heart out, that he might baffle 
them all with the greatest ease, and satisfy to the full 
his greed of vengeance, his cruel longing to pain his 
rival. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


Lady Denham paid a longer visit to Enfield Chase 
than they had expected, so that it was already evening 
when they returned to Norfolk Street. 

‘ Mistress Radcliffe has returned, I suppose? ’ said 
Mary to the old butler as she followed her aunt into the 
house. 

‘ Nay, mistress, I have been wondering to myself that 
she be as late as this/ said Thomas, and he went out to 
gaze along the street for signs of the chair. 

‘’Tis strange/ said Mary. ‘ Maybe, however, she is 
being kept to supper. I hope there has been no acci- 
dent. Did she have steady chairmen? ’ 

6 Yes, mistress, the two her ladyship always employs — 
respectable men enough/ 

Mary looking somewhat anxious, began to climb the 
first flight of stairs, but paused at the sound of a thun- 
dering knock at the front door. 

‘ She must have come! ’ she exclaimed, and hastened 
down once more, to find, however, no chair as she had 
expected, but two breathless and shamefaced men, who 
were incoherently gasping out inquiries. 

‘ The young lady — be she — come back? * 

* No/ said Thomas. ‘ What do you mean? Where is 
she ? 9 

‘ We carried her to Sir William Temple’s house and 
left the chair there at four o’clock/ said the elder of the 
two men, mopping his red face. She bade us come 
again in half an hour, and we went to get a drink at 


376 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


an alehouse hard by. There two fellows fell a-talking 
with us in a friendly way, and it’s my belief they was 
wizards, for, somehow or other, Ben and me we both 
dropped off asleep, and the next thing we knows was 
that the wizards had swopped coats and hats with us, 
and was clean gone/ 

‘Did the people at the inn notice naught ? 5 asked 
Mary. 

‘ Nay, mistress, we was in the parlour alone, and the 
wench at the bar she said she thought they was just two 
chairmen agoin’ away when they left the alehouse some 
two hours before. So off sets me and Ben to find the 
chair, but when we got to Sir William Temple’s, why, 
they told us it had been gone these two hours with the 
young lady inside it, and the butler he told her ladyship, 
who hade us come back and tell you all as fast as we 
could.’ 

Mary had grown deadly pale; she instantly perceived 
that there must have been foul play somewhere, and the 
thought that she had perhaps only brought Audrey to 
London to expose her to greater dangers made her heart 
die within her. 

‘ Sit down,’ she said, motioning the men to a bench. 
‘ I must tell Sir William Denham and see what can he 
done.’ 

It seemed, alas! that there was very little to do. Ru- 
pert Denham and Mary went with the men to the nearest 
magistrate, and there made their deposition as to Au- 
drey’s strange disappearance. The constables and the 
watchmen were ordered to do their utmost to trace out 
the miscreants who had drugged the chairmen, and 
next day all London rang with the story of the abduc- 
tion of Mistress Audrey Radcliffe. 

It was, however, only too easy in those days for people 
to disappear. The wretchedly insufficient supply of 
watchmen, the slowness of communication, the stupidity 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


377 


of such constables as were specially employed to search 
for criminals, made many things possible in the seven- 
teenth century which in modern times would be carried 
out with infinite difficulty, and almost certainly dis- 
covered before any length of time had elapsed. It was 
resolved that at all costs they must keep the news from 
Michael as long as possible, for, pent up in the Tower, 
Mary feared that such dreadful tidings would make him 
desperate. Each day they hoped to find Audrey, and 
beyond writing to Michael to ask him to set down on 
paper a full description of the Under-Sheriff to aid the 
authorities in their search, Mary held no communica- 
tion with him. 

Her request seemed to him natural enough, and he 
wrote the description as desired, deeming that she did 
not wish to trouble Audrey with questions as to the man 
who had jilted her. He was actually writing the details 
of Henry Brownrigg’s height and appearance when, to 
his surprise, young Enderby the J acobite was shown into 
his cell. 

‘ Mr. Radcliffe , 5 he said, ‘ I chanced to be admitted 
to-day to see my Lord Clarendon, and I have leave to 
visit you also. I wish to let you know how deeply I 
regret that words spoken by me to a stranger while 
dining at Pontack 5 s early in August should have been 
twisted info evidence against you. You will remember 
that we met last June in Yilliers Street . 5 

‘ Yes/ said Michael, ‘ I recollect your coming in while 
I was calling on Mr. Calverley. I had then, of course, no 
notion that he was my father or that he was in com- 
munication with St. Germains, and only gathered that 
last fact froip. the words you let fall . 5 

‘ Believe me , 5 said Enderby, ( I repeated the story just 
as it happened to this scoundrel, thinking him a friendly 
fellow and not dreaming that he had a spite against you. 
Then he goes to the authorities with a cock and bull 


378 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


story of your having known all about the lemon-letters, 
and had the impudence to say I told him that was the 
case. I suppose he is this villainous Under-Sheriff 
Brownrigg who is in hiding for having killed your 
father? ’ 

‘ There is Mr. Brownrigg’s description. I have just 
been writing it/ said Michael, handing the paper to his 
visitor. 

‘ Ay, he was a tall man, I remember, but he was 
wearing, if I recollect, an auburn peruke. The mis- 
creant has now wholly disappeared, and God knows 
what he has done with your young kinswoman. It 
must he hard for you to be a prisoner and unable to help 
in the search for her/ 

Michael sprang' to his feet; the blood rushed to his 
face. 

‘What do you mean?’ he cried in a choked voice. 
‘ For God’s sake, tell me what has happened.’ 

‘ Have they not told you?’ exclaimed Enderhy, greatly 
dismayed. ‘ Why, Mistress Badcliffe was being carried 
back about five o’clock last Monday afternoon from my 
Lady Temple’s house at Battersea in a chair, and it 
seems that the real chairmen were drugged while waiting 
for her, and some villains, probably in Mr. Brownrigg’s 
pay ’tis thought, carried the chair off with the lady in- 
side it and she has not yet been traced. ’Tis hard on 
you, locked up here, hut — why, good Lord! my dear 
sir, I’m confoundedly sorry to have told you! ’ 

For with the chattering voice of the Jacobite still 
pouring forth the words which wrung his heart, Michael 
suddenly reeled where he stood, and before his com- 
panion could steady him fell heavily to the ground in a 
swoon. 

When Audrey woke on the Tuesday morning to find 
herself a prisoner in the empty house, her heart was 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


379 


heavy indeed. Yet, being young and vigorous, things 
did not look quite so hopeless to her as on the previous 
night. The darkness was over, no peril had come near 
her, and now the sun was shining. Moreover, she could 
hear on the stairs the voice of a child, and this cheered 
her more than any other sound could have done. 

When the surly woman came later on with her break- 
fast, the little child strayed in after her, staring with all 
his eyes at the pretty lady who stood by the window. He 
must have been about five years old, and had a most 
friendly look in his blue eyes and chubby, round face. 

Audrey held out her watch to entice him, and he was 
soon sitting on her knee, looking at the mysterious 
ticking clock, as he called it, contained in the little 
shagreen outer case. 

c Let him stay with me while I breakfast/ she said, 
glancing at the woman. 

‘ Oh, if you like to be troubled with him/ replied her 
gaoler with a shrug of the shoulders. But there was 
nevertheless a slight softening in her hard face as she 
glanced at the two. The child was very dear to her; 
he was also much in her way during the morning, so 
that she caught at once at a suggestion which meant 
pleasure for him and relief to herself. 

It came about therefore that the long hours, which 
would otherwise have been intolerable to Audrey, were 
cheered by the presence of flaxen-haired Tim, who fell 
into the habit of coming in every day with her breakfast 
and again with her supper, and amused her not a little 
by his childish prattle. 

When he was not with her she racked her brain to 
think of means of escaping from her prison-house. But 
it was not until the Thursday morning that an idea 
suddenly occurred to her. Then, as she sat musing 
sadly over the terrible trouble which she knew her ab- 
sence must be causing to Mary Denham and to Michael, 


38 o 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


something all at once reminded her of her visit to 
Carleton Manor and of the story of Lucy Carleton’s leap 
from the window into the tree when she made her 
escape from home. 

Alas! the only tree near this house grew far below 
her window, and by no possibility could she hope to 
reach it. But as she gazed sadly down into the tree 
so far below her she heard Tim’s cheery little voice 
singing in the garden: 

‘ Cuckoo, cherry tree, 

Catch a bird and give it me. 

Let the tree be high or low, 

Let it hail or rain or snow.’ 

Leaning out of the casement, she saw that he was 
skipping, and with the monotonous beat of the rope on 
the path, and the sound of the child’s little feet, a 
thought suddenly darted into her mind. If she could 
only induce Tim to leave his skipping rope with her 
when he next came to pay her a visit, surely she might 
with its help reach the window below, and escape 
through the empty room she had seen as she came up- 
stairs on the day of her arrival, letting herself out of the 
front door noiselessly while the woman of the house 
slept. 

Her heart beat so fast at the mere thought of escape 
that she had much difficulty in calming herself enough 
to think out the details of her plan. More than once 
she had thought of climbing down from the window, 
but its height from the ground had always baffled her. 
Moreover, the woman had taken care to leave her noth- 
ing which could serve to help so perilous a descent; the 
sheets were mere rags and tore with a touch, while 
the small rug which served as a coverlet was far too thick 
and strong to be torn into lengths and used as a rope. 

She knew that the woman was now in the adjoining 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


381 


room in the front of the house, where apparently she 
and little Tim slept. It would therefore be well to 
seize the opportunity of speaking to the child in the 
garden, and leaning far out of the casement, she man- 
aged to attract his attention. 

‘ Are you coming up at supper time? ’ she said. 

‘ Ay, mistress, I’m a-comin’/ said Tim, kissing his 
fat little hand to this captive princess whom he had 
learnt to love. 

‘Then bring your skipping rope to show me/ she 
said, ‘ and if you’ll put an apple in your pocket I will 
cut it into a well for you.’ 

The child nodded and ran off to choose the best wind- 
fall he could find in the grass. Audrey was in terror 
lest he should forget the rope, and she hardly knew how 
to contain herself for joy when at seven o’clock he 
trotted in after his mother as she brought the supper- 
tray, with his skipping rope tucked under his arm and 
a ruddy apple in his hand. 

‘ Now cut me the well/ he pleaded. ‘ I want to see 
how you make it into a well.’ 

‘Yes/ said Audrey, ‘you shall see. But first you 
must help me to eat my supper.’ And the woman left 
them, as usual locking the door, and reminding Tim 
that she should come for him in half an hour. 

‘ Skip and show me how well you can do it while I 
spread you a piece of bread and butter/ said Audrey. 

And Tim obediently went through the performance, 
after which she gently took the rope from him and 
slipped it under her skirt while he was hungrily devour- 
ing the food she had prepared. 

They chatted merrily throughout the meal, and she 
had just finished making his apple-well when his mother 
returned for the supper-tray. 

‘Look!’ shouted Tim. ‘See what the lady’s made 
me/ and he was so much enchanted with the novelty 


382 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


of the hollow apple and the delightful little notches 
which fitted into each other so daintily that he forgot 
all about his skipping rope and went off to bed clasping 
his treasure, leaving Audrey a little sad at the thought 
that she had used him as her unconscious tool, and that 
if she succeeded in her escape she should never see the 
child again. 

However, there was no time to be lost in regrets like 
these. She had to examine her rope carefully while 
the light lasted. Fortunately, it proved to be long and 
strong. Evidently it had been too long for little Tim, 
since in several places it had been knotted. And this 
reminded her that in the old days when Michael used 
to go after the eagles in Borrowdale, the rope by which 
he had been lowered had always had strong knots tied 
in it, and that knots would be the only means of prevent- 
ing her too rapid descent. Even as it was, she knew 
well enough that the task would be a difficult one and 
that she ran great risk. Still anything seemed better 
to her than to allow Michael to remain any longer in the 
agonising state of suspense she knew he must be in. 
Having carefully tested each knot, she hid the rope in 
case the woman should again enter the room, and then 
began to examine the window. It was a fairly large 
casement, and the lattices swung back close to the wall, 
where they could be secured by iron hooks on each side. 
In the centre was an upright stone mullion. She tested 
it as well as she could, and thought that if the rope were 
securely fastened round it she might safely venture the 
descent to the window-sill of the room below. She took 
the precaution of opening the lattices and fastening 
them back at once, but dared not do anything further 
until night had come. 

The hours of waiting seemed to her endless, but at 
last, to her intense relief, she heard the woman toiling 
up the long flights of stairs and shutting herself into the 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


383 


adjoining room. Then, in a few minutes, silence 
reigned throughout the house. From time to time in 
the distance she could hear a church clock striking the 
hour, and not daring to let herself sleep, she sat waiting 
in an agony of impatience for the first tokens of dawn 
to show themselves in the sky. The waiting seemed so 
fearfully long that she began almost to fancy her sight 
must be failing. However, just as the church clock 
struck three a slight change became perceptible in the 
outer world. The air seemed to grow colder; away in 
the distance she heard the crowing of a cock, and a 
glimmering of light began to show itself in the sky. 

Stealing gently to the window, she made her rope 
fast about the mullion, and with intense anxiety let it 
down. 

The moment had come, and she scarcely knew 
whether delight that her waiting-time was over, or 
desperate anxiety as to the perilous descent, or the 
sheer terror of pursuit filled the largest place in her 
heart. 

She swung herself noiselessly up to the window-sill, 
clinging with one hand to the mullion, and trying not 
to let her brain grow unsteady as she glanced down that 
giddy height. It was bad enough to sit there on the 
sill with her feet hanging in mid-air. What would It 
be when she was actually sliding down with nothing 
but a child’s skipping rope to cling to? 

4 Well, the longer I look at it the less I shall like it/ 
she said to herself, drawing a deep breath. ‘Now! for 
the sake of freedom and Michael! ’ 

And with that she bravely gripped the rope, and the 
next moment felt herself swaying out horribly into the 
dim space. The rope tore through her hands; she slid 
down, down, scraping against the wall of the house, till 
at length something touched her feet, and clutching 
desperately at the mullion of a window, she found 


384 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


herself standing in safety on the broad window-sill of 
the room beneath, but so terribly giddy and shaken that 
for some moments she could only pant for breath, and 
cling with all her might to the friendly shelter of the 
window-frame. 

At length a little recovered, she bethought her of the 
next step in her escape. She had hoped to find the 
window open, or at any rate to be able to loosen the 
fastening from the outside. But, to her dismay, this 
proved to be impossible. She dared not make a noise, 
lest her gaoler should be roused and all her efforts to 
unfasten the casement proved unavailing. 

‘ I must do as Michael’s mother did and jump into the 
tree/ she reflected. ‘ From this lower window it may 
be just possible — nay, it shall be possible/ 

The words of the child’s song floated through her 
mind, and with the courage born of love she forced her- 
self to face round upon the window-sill, to stand up- 
right, then to bend for that desperate jump which would 
mean safety or death. 

‘ I must see the King and Queen and tell them the 
truth,’ she reflected, 6 or Michael may be ruined.’ 

And as she sprang towards the cherry tree she seemed 
to hear Tim’s voice gaily singing: 

‘ Let the tree be high or low, 

Let it hail or rain or snow.’ 

There was a crash as of a broken branch; then the 
next thing she knew was that she was clinging to a 
rugged and moss-grown old trunk, that her hair had 
caught in the branches above her, and that blood was 
trickling slowly down her hands and arms. To dis- 
engage herself and climb down from the tree was no 
difficult task to a country-bred girl. With a feeling 
of rapture she found herself safely on the wet grass, and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


385 


began hurriedly to walk down to the place where from 
her window she had seen the row of elm trees. Alas! 
to her dismay she found that the high wall bound the 
garden in this direction also, and that it must be scaled 
before she was really free. Moreover, it was a red- 
brick wall, not like the loose stone walls used in Borrow- 
dale to fence the fields. She was an adept at climbing 
those, but to get over this much higher and more diffi- 
cult one would tax all her powers. Luckily, in one 
corner she came upon an apple tree planted against it. 
And, to her delight, the thick, strong branches closely 
nailed up against the bricks proved almost as good as 
a ladder. Audrey climbed up to the top valiantly, then 
looked anxiously to see how she would fare on the other 
side. Beneath her there was a dusty road. Away in 
the distance she could see the chimneys of houses or 
cottages, and immediately opposite her was another 
red-brick wall, evidently bounding some other garden. 
There was no help for it; she must let herself down as 
well as she could and trust to reach the road without 
broken bones. Swinging herself over, she hung by her 
hands for a moment, then dropped, rolled over twice, 
struck her head aginst a stone in the road and lay there 
in the dust stunned. 

She was roused in a few minutes by the heavy rum- 
bling of wheels, but was still so dazed by her fall that 
she could not make up her mind to stir. Then the 
wheels stopped and footsteps drew near, at which she 
started up in sudden alarm. In the road she saw a 
market wagon laden with apples, and beside her, looking 
greatly perplexed, was a countryman in a smock frock 
and broad felt hat. 

‘Art hurt, mistress?’ he said, glancing at her bleed- 
ing hands and torn dress. 

‘ Yes/ she said faintly. ‘ I have been carried off by 
two ruffians and have only escaped with great difficulty. 

25 


386 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Pray take me in your cart as far as Norfolk Street, and 
my friends will reward you/ 

‘Why, Pm but a wagoner, mistress, on my way to 
Covent Garden market; ’tis scarce a fit way for a lady 
like yourself to travel/ he said hesitatingly. 

‘ Oh, it will do excellent well/ she said. ‘ Only let me 
take shelter in it at once, for I am in terror lest they 
follow me/ 

‘ Never fear, mistress; Pll settle the man that tries to 
lay hands on ye/ said the sturdy countryman. And 
with that he helped her into the wagon and covered her 
with a great bit of sacking; then touching up his horses, 
drove on towards London, promising to set her down in 
Norfolk Street before he went to the market. 

The wagon jolted and rumbled on over the rough 
roads, but Audrey thought it was the most blissful ride 
she had ever known, and she could have kissed the old 
driver when at length he lifted her down at the door of 
Sir William Denham’s house. His loud knock at the 
door speedily brought — not the old serving-man, but 
Mistress Mary Denham herself to open it. 

‘ Oh, my dear! my dear! ’ she cried, taking the girl 
in her arms. ‘ How thankful I am to see you safely 
back! We have been distracted about you. Are you 
indeed unharmed ? ’ 

‘ Quite/ said Audrey, clinging to her. ‘ And pray 
give this good countryman the reward he deserves, for 
without his help I should never have got here/ 

e Ma’am/ said the old wagoner, ‘ I found her a-lying 
in the road as white as a broken lily, and right glad I 
am I chanced to be passing along to market. She must 
have climbed over the wall of the house that used to 
belong to old Squire Mallinder. It’s been empty this 
year and more — Millbeck House, you know, ma’am, 
where the poor old gentleman was killed by his gar- 
dener/ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


387 


f To be sure, I remember hearing of it/ said Mary, 
and again warmly thanking the man for his help, 
she turned once more to Audrey as though loth to take 
her eyes off her now that at length she had come back 
to them. 


CHAPTER XL 


“You are sure no harm has befallen you ? 5 she said 
anxiously, leading the girl to her room. 

‘None/ said Audrey, ‘but I have had a terrible 
fright/ 

‘ And you have hurt your hands and arms/ said Mary. 
‘ You must let me bind them up for you/ 

‘What I chiefly need is hot water for washing and 
fresh linen/ said Audrey, laughing. ‘ I have been shut 
up in one room ever since Monday. Oh, you don’t know 
what bliss it is to be free once more and to have you to 
talk to ! 5 

Before long she was cosily ensconced in an armchair 
in Mary’s bedroom, telling her all that had happened, 
and every detail of the escape, while Mary heated her a 
cup of chocolate over a little spirit-lamp, listening very 
eagerly to her tale. 

‘ And how about Michael? ’ she said when all was told. 
‘ I fear he has been sadly troubled about it.’ 

‘He has, indeed/ said Mary, ‘but we contrived to 
keep it from him till yesterday. Then, to my dismay, 
who should call upon me but young Mr. Enderby, the 
Jacobite, reproaching himself terribly for having, while 
visiting Michael, let out the fact of your disappearance. 
He is a chatterbox and can never hold his tongue. I 
went at once to the Tower and found him in terrible 
distress; but don’t cry over it, dear heart, for Is not his 
trouble happily ended? You shall see him yourself as 
soon as we can decently visit him.’ 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


389 


‘And you’ll not expect me ever again to get into a 
sedan chair/ said Audrey, laughing through her tears. 
‘ I shall never forget the dreadful, helpless feeling of it.’ 

‘ You shall have the family coach/ said Mary, caress- 
ing her. ‘ And we will first visit the Tower, and then 
go to see Lady Temple, for she has been sadly anxious 
about you. Indeed, dear, all London has been thinking 
of you, and her Majesty has herself more than once 
inquired whether there was no news yet as to your 
whereabouts.’ 

‘I told you/ said Audrey, ‘that though the writing 
was in some ways unlike Henry Brownrigg’s on this 
scrap of paper, yet in one or two points it much re- 
sembles his; and what the old wagoner said as to the 
house confirms my thought that he planned it all. Mill- 
beck is the name of the Brownrigg property near Kes- 
wick, and I know he has kinsfolk of the name of Mallin- 
der. Doubtless he knew this house to he empty and 
deserted, and was easily able to use it for a prison for 
me.’ 

‘ Well, do not let us talk any more jnst now/ said 
Mary, ‘ hut try if you cannot rest for a while in my bed 
while I go down and tell my uncle the good news. See, 
I will draw the curtains, and after this long night of 
excitement and adventure you will surely sleep.’ 

Audrey protested, but nevertheless was soon sleeping 
soundly, nor did she stir till Mary came to her room at 
ten o’clock. 

Waking then to find the gentle face and thoughtful 
brown eyes of her friend looking down on her, she sud- 
denly wreathed her arms about Mary Denham’s neck, 
kissing her with an almost passionate devotion. 

‘ Oh, how good it is to wake and find you near me 
instead of waking in that dreadful room to the sight of 
that hard-looking hag! Had it not been for little Tim 
I think I should have lost my wits altogether.’ 


39 <=> 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


‘Poor child, you must indeed have had a terrible 
time/ said Mary. ‘ Are you really fit to come now to the 
Tower? If so, the coach is at the door and we had 
better dress.’ 

Audrey protested that she was fit for anything after 
the sleep she had had, and indeed excitement had 
brought a lovely glow of colour to her cheeks and had 
made her great grey eyes brighter than ever. 

Mary, glancing at her as they were taken to Michael’s 
cell, thought she had never seen a lovelier face, and in 
truth there was a new beauty about it, for those anxious 
days had developed Audrey, bringing out all that was 
strong and noble in her character. It was arranged that 
she should linger a little behind on the stairs while 
Mary went to give Michael a word of preparation. 

He started up eagerly as the door was opened, and she 
was grieved to see how wretched and haggard he looked, 
evidently having been unable to sleep since Enderby had 
brought him the bad news. 

‘ Have you heard anything of her? ’ he asked, scarcely 
pausing to greet his visitor in his extreme anxiety. 

‘ Yes, we have,’ she said with a smile. ‘ All is well, 
and you must brace yourself up to learn good news this 
time.’ 

‘ Tell me quickly,’ he pleaded. You are sure it is 
true, and that she is indeed unharmed?’ 

‘ Quite sure. She will tell you all herself; she is here 
now, and only longing to see you.’ 

With that she summoned Audrey, hardly able to re- 
sist a smile when she saw that this couple, who had been 
betrothed but a week, were very much more like hus- 
band and wife than any lovers she had yet come across. 
Where were the stately forms and ceremonies habit- 
ual in those days? Where were the deferential modes 
of address? Clearly ‘Mie’ and Audrey had belonged 
to each other in truth ever since their cradle days in 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


39 1 


Borrowdale. The formal and ill-omened betrothal to 
Henry Brownrigg, now happily at an end, had been 
but a brief and unhappy interlude, and the Jacobite 
plot, which had accomplished nothing else but trouble 
and vexation, might at least claim to have had its share 
in preventing what must have been a most miserable 
marriage. 

< Shall you think me very hard-hearted if I carry 
Audrey otf now to see Lady Temple ? 9 said Mary when 
Michael had heard the story of the last few days. 

‘ Indeed/ said Audrey, ‘ it would be best for you, Mic, 
that we should lose no time. Mr. Brownrigg must by 
now have learnt of my escape, and we must not let him 
frustrate our plans any more.’ 

‘ I will not say a word against your going if you will 
promise to run no further risks/ said Michael. ‘You 
will be well on your guard now, and Mistress Denham 
will, I know, take every care of you/ 

‘ I don’t think I shall dare to let her out of my sight/ 
said Mary, laughing, ‘ and I will undertake that she 
shall never go out save in the coach and with a lacquey 
in attendance/ 

They left the prisoner in excellent spirits, and cross- 
ing London Bridge with its quaint houses and shops, 
drove to Battersea to visit Lady Temple. 

They found her just on the point of starting for 
Hampton Court, and her motherly reception of them 
and the intensity of her relief on finding that Audrey 
was safe and unhurt touched them both. 

c There is no time to be lost/ she said in her sweet 
yet decided way. ‘ You must both come with me now in 
my coach and we will, if possible, let the Queen hear 
Mistress Radcliffe’s tale from her own lips before the 
gossips have had time to take the flavour out of it/ 

Mary reflected that they were scarcely in court attire, 
but she held her peace, knowing that Lady Temple had 


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special privileges owing to her long friendship with the 
Queen; and, after all, though her own dress was of the 
quietest and Audrey’s betrayed tokens of its country 
origin, they were going on a matter of great urgency, 
and not to any court function. 

‘ The Queen, moreover, is a true woman, and will be 
more interested in Audrey’s bonny face and curious 
romance than in her garments,’ she thought to herself, 
glancing to the other side of the coach, where Michael’s 
fiancee sat lost in a happy dream of how she was about 
to rescue him from the grim old Tower where he had 
passed through so much. 

It was about one o’clock when they reached the stately 
palace of Hampton Court. Lady Temple pointed out 
to them the turreted portion of the building, from the 
flagstaff of which the standard of England floated to 
show that the King and Queen were in residence. 

e That is the banqueting room,’ she said, ‘ and until 
the State apartments Sir Christopher Wren is building 
are finished it is the part of the palace chiefly in 
use. Her Majesty’s rooms are in what they call the 
Water gallery, and the banqueting room communi- 
cates with the royal apartments by an underground 
passage.’ 

Lady Temple was expected, and telling her two com- 
panions to follow her, they were all ushered through the 
corridors and anterooms of the somewhat stiffly arranged 
palace to a chamber opening upon the garden, where 
they were received by Lady Derby, the Mistress of the 
Kobes, and an old friend of Lady Temple’s. 

‘ I have ventured to bring with me the young north 
country lady that all London is talking of,’ said Lady 
Temple, presenting Audrey to the countess. ‘ She hath 
most happily ended our anxieties by contriving a very 
brave escape from the place where she had been carried 
by the faithless chairmen. I am anxious that her 


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393 


Majesty should learn the tale, if possible, from her own 
lips/ 

‘ Her Majesty is in the garden with the King. She 
bade me bring you there as soon as you arrived/ said 
Lady Derby, glancing with interest at Audrey. ‘You 
shall yourself propose to present Mistress Radcliffe, and 
meantime she and Mistress Denham will perhaps wait 
here while we learn the Queen’s pleasure/ 

‘ That will be an excellent plan/ said Lady Temple. 
‘ There is, moreover, a petition from Mr. Michael Rad- 
cliff e, which we thought of asking her Majesty to lay 
before the King/ 

The two ladies went into the garden, talking together, 
leaving Mary Denham and Audrey in some trepidation 
at the notion of perhaps seeing the King himself. 

‘ I could wish you were not in black/ said Mary, ‘ for 
’tis well known that his Majesty cannot endure mourn- 
ing garments/ 

‘ That is unlucky/ said Audrey, ‘ but who could have 
thought when we started this morning that we should 
be at Hampton Court in the afternoon! I am in 
black from head to foot, save for the red roses you gave 
me/ 

‘ Ah, to be sure! our roses for the prisoner in the 
Tower; that is a happy thought/ said Mary, unpinning 
the ones she wore. ‘ I will fasten these in your hat, and 
you must wear this white lace handkerchief of mine, 
that will lighten the costume a good deal. Now, did 
ever two poor ladies come to court so ill prepared? ’ 

Audrey protested against taking the lace and the 
flowers, but Mary was too intent on the need of con- 
ciliating the King and not offending his well-known 
taste to have a thought to spare for her own dress. 

‘ There! ’ she said triumphantly, putting the last pin 
into the daintily arranged neckerchief. ‘ If his Maj- 
esty is not content with you now he will be hard to 


394 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


please. I only hope Mr. Radcliffe’s petition is well 
written and easy to decipher/ 

‘ Oh, yes, Michael’s handwriting was ever the clearest 
and best/ said his fiancee. ‘I have no fears for that, 
but much as to my own way of presenting it/ 

Before long Lady Derby returned and bade them 
come into the garden, as the Queen was anxious to see 
the heroine of so strange an adventure; at which saying 
Audrey could have found it in her heart to laugh, for it 
suddenly struck her that few girls had enjoyed the 
privilege of swinging from a rope and leaping into a 
tree in the early hours of the morning and being pre- 
sented to a Queen in the afternoon. 

‘ I am indeed something of a novelty/ she thought to 
herself with a little smile playing about her lips. And 
then, as they crossed the smooth-shaven lawn, once 
Wolsey’s property, and which had been trodden by the 
Tudors and the Stuarts, and by Cromwell in the days of 
the Commonwealth, she suddenly perceived a little 
group of people standing near a fallen tree, the victim 
of that September gale which had tried Mistress Mary 
Denham so severely on her journey into Cumberland. 
It was an elm, but it had served its time and the wood 
had become old and decayed. In its place the gardeners 
were planting one of King William’s favourite ever- 
greens, and his Majesty was himself superintending the 
work, keenly interested in what was indeed one of his 
happiest hobbies. 

Audrey could hardly have seen him at a better mo- 
ment. When in the previous November Michael had 
seen him at Whitehall, he had felt a shock of disap- 
pointment, for a state ball always bored the King to 
distraction, and he invariably became stiff, taciturn, and 
morose-looking. 

This morning he was in excellent spirits, and there 
was a delightful simplicity in his whole manner and 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


395 


bearing, so that Audrey had to remind herself that this 
was indeed the hero of the Boyne, the soldier King, 
who was never so happy as in the thickest of the battle. 

The Queen, who had been in close converse with him 
and with Lady Temple, received the two younger ladies 
very graciously, and Audrey was thinking so much of 
her betrothed in his dreary cell that she had no time to 
remember that this interview was in truth a great ordeal. 
She looked into the kindly eyes of the Queen and at the 
King’s thoughtful but inscrutable face, and answered 
the questions they put to her like a child repeating the 
catechism, her big grey eyes a trifle wider operi than 
usual, her head raised and a little thrown back, for the 
King and Queen were standing on rising ground. 

‘ If only Audrey had on a pinafore she might very 
well stand for the picture of a child at school/ reflected 
Mary, amused and surprised by the girl’s unconscious 
mien. ‘ Anything more innocently unabashed I never 
saw in all my life.’ 

Meanwhile the King and Queen had asked all about 
the events at Borrowdale, and had heard of the manner 
in which John Radcliffe had been killed, and of how 
Mr. Brownrigg had fled, as it was thought, to London; 
and having previously learned from Lady Temple of the 
rivalry between the TJnder-Sherifl and Michael Rad- 
cliffe, they were able to draw their own conclusions. 

‘ Does Mr. Radcliffe swear that he knows nothing of 
the Jacobite conspiracy?’ said the King, scanning the 
girl’s face keenly and satisfied with its perfect truthful- 
ness of expression. 

‘ He swears, sire, that he knew naught, though he had 
heard the rumours current in London during the trial 
of Mr. Crone. He also, during his last interview in 
London with Mr. Calverley, chanced to see Mr. Enderby 
and could not help inferring that he was communicating 
with St. Germains, after which he avoided Mr. Calver- 


39 6 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


ley’s society, nor once met him again until the night in 
Borrowdale when, under his true name of John Rad- 
cliffe, he met him in the cave above Lowdore.’ 

‘Were you always present during the interviews he 
had with Mr. John Radcliffe?’ asked the Queen, ‘and 
can you recall any names that were mentioned betwixt 
them ? ’ 

‘ I was present each time, your Majesty, save at that 
last meeting when they changed clothes on the night 
my uncle was killed,’ said Audrey. ‘ And as to names, 
I am sure that none were mentioned. We spoke merely 
of the way in which my uncle could escape from the 
neighbourhood and take ship at Workington or White- 
haven.’ 

‘ That tallies with what Mr. Michael Radcliffe said in 
answer to the questions put to him on his arrival at the 
Tower,’ said the Queen. ‘ He swore he had never heard 
of Nevill Payne, nor of my Lord Annandale, nor Sir 
James Montgomery.’ 

‘ Yet it is plainly proved that Mr. John Radcliffe was 
in their counsels,’ said the King thoughtfully. ‘ Still, 
’tis like enough he held his tongue while he was in Cum- 
berland, where I gather he met with no encouragement 
even from the Catholics.’ 

He again relapsed into silence, and once more glanced 
through Michael’s petition, while Audrey waited with 
breathless anxiety, not daring to watch his face while 
he read, hut looking in a vague way at the figures of 
some of the Queen’s Dutch ladies as they paced to and 
fro under the shade of the fast-thinning elms and the 
chestnuts with their golden autumn foliage in what the 
English people had lately dubbed ‘ Frow Walk.’ 

‘ I’ faith, ’tis an honest enough petition,’ exclaimed 
the King at length. ‘ It seems to me that Mr. Michael 
Radcliffe hath had hard usage; nor am I inclined to 
blame him for the part he played in trying to get his 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


397 


father out of the kingdom. Methinks love of a lady 
had more to do with it than politics/ 

The Queen laughed merrily, finding in this north 
country love-tale a curious relief, for she had been sorely 
burdened during the King’s absence with the difficult 
task of unravelling the plot concocted by Lord Annan- 
dale and his accomplices. 

‘ Then, sire/ she said, ‘ it were surely the best plan to 
hand over the prisoner to a more gentle gaoler than my 
Lord Lucas. If, as it seems, love of a lady led Mr. 
Michael Radcliffe into this escapade and has kept him 
nigh upon three months in durance, let the lady’s love 
rescue him, for methinks she has played her part right 
bravely, and hath suffered not a little.’ 

The King smiled one of those rare smiles which, 
illumining a sombre and harsh-featured face, seem like 
a sudden revelation of the divine in man. 

He turned to his Gentleman-Usher, Sir Thomas 
Duppa,and bade him fetch writing materials; then, while 
the Queen once more questioned Audrey as to her escape 
that morning, he became engrossed in the tree-planting, 
forgetting for the time all affairs of state, or that such 
things as plots and prisoners existed. 

Mary Denham had no fears now as to the result of 
the interview, and rejoiced in the thought that her 
daring suggestion of fetching Audrey from the north 
had been justified. With a gleam of quiet humour in 
her eyes, she watched the extremely stately way in 
which Sir Thomas Duppa crossed the lawn carrying the 
King’s pen, while behind him stepped a page bearing an 
inkhorn and some paper on a huge silver salver. 

But the King’s interest in the Cumberland romance 
had given place to interest in his tree-planting, and it 
was with a preoccupied air that he scrawled hastily on 
a sheet of paper the words ‘Release Mr. Michael Rad- 
cliffe ’ and affixed his signature. 


39 8 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


He bade the Queen also sign the document, saying 
with a smile that, after all, she was responsible both for 
the committal and the release; but Audrey doubted 
whether he even heard the grateful words with which 
she received the pardon. He turned abruptly away and 
began to talk to the gardeners, finally walking off with 
them to inspect the trees in the recently planted 
maze. 

‘ Now, if Mr. Kadcliffe be a wise man/ said the Queen 
with a bright, arch look, ‘ he will not let the grass grow 
under his feet, but will wed you with haste and carry 
you safely back to the north country, where sedan 
chairs, they tell me, are unknown. He is a lucky man 
to have won so brave a lady for his bride/ 

And with that kindly little speech ringing in her ears, 
Audrey, holding the precious letter for Lord Lucas 
safely clasped in her hand, curtseyed low to the Queen 
and followed Lady Temple back to the coach, for it was 
agreed that no time should be lost and that the order 
for Michael’s release should be at once presented. 

When they had left the precincts of Hampton Court 
and were rumbling slowly along towards the city, Au- 
drey bent forward in the coach and threw her arms 
about Mary Denham’s neck. 

‘’Tis your doing,’ she said, her eyes full of happy 
tears. ‘ We shall owe the happiness of all our lives to 
you.’ 

‘ Ay,’ said Lady Temple, smiling kindly upon them, 
‘Mary hath ever had a quite unusual talent for the 
releasing of prisoners. You are by no means the first 
couple who owe her the happiness of their lives. And, 
my dear, let me give you a word of motherly counsel. 
Do not forget the Queen’s injunction. Delays are dan- 
gerous. Have no scruple as to wedding your released 
prisoner as soon as may be, and get him safely away from 
London. For your grandfather’s sake it were better 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


399 


to return with what speed yon may, and the roads will 
be ill to travel over as the autumn goes on/ 

‘ Indeed/ said Audrey, blushing, ‘ if you think there 
is indeed nothing unseemly in such haste I would far 
rather that we were married at once, for I shall never be 
at rest about Michael till all is safely over/ 

And though no one mentioned Henry Brownrigg’s 
name they all three thought of him, fearing greatly 
lest the man who had been foiled so many times should 
at the last succeed in getting the revenge he eagerly 
craved. 


CHAPTER XLI 


Recollections of Michael Derwent . 

When I first entered the Tower of London, tired and 
heated with the long journey from the north and in 
the lowest spirits, I little dreamed that in that gloomy 
old fortress the greatest happiness of my life was to come 
to me. Yet so it proved, for it was there that I learnt 
through that best of friends, Mistress Mary Denham, 
that my hope was indeed realised, that the dismal doubt 
lest Sir Francis Salkeld’s son should win Audrey’s 
hand was for ever banished, and that I knew at last that 
my dear love cared for me and would accept my suit. 

Yet even after that day of rapture when with her own 
lips she promised to be my wife, there were dark times 
of trouble for us. 

Enderby, that chattering magpie, whose tongue 
seemed fated to work me mischief, nearly sent me off 
my head altogether by telling me without the least 
preparation the dire news of Audrey’s mysterious dis- 
appearance, and had it not been for my dear love’s brave 
determination to escape at all costs from the house to 
which that villain Brownrigg had caused her to be 
carried, I don’t think I could have borne up against 
the torture of having to wait helplessly in my narrow 
prison cell, not knowing in the least what was befalling 
her. 

But when, on a fair September morning, she came 
with Mistress Denham to see me, and I found that she 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


401 


was unharmed and had baffled the Under-Sheriff, the 
sight of her speedily cured me; save that even now — 
when no danger threatens us — I have a foolish fear 
of letting her be away from me, as though the shadow 
of that past agony still lurked behind and kept me 
more or less its slave; and many a time I have been so 
far unmanned as to return in the middle of a day’s hunt- 
ing, unable to endure the torturing anxiety any longer. 

However, this is anticipating, and I must set down, 
ere ending these recollections, the account of how, on 
that very day when Audrey had safely returned, my 
imprisonment was brought to a most happy end. It 
was about five o’clock in the afternoon when my Lord 
Lucas, attended by some of the guard, came up the stair- 
case of the Bloody Tower, and entering my room, with 
a civil greeting handed me a paper. I thought it was 
to bid me to some sort of examination, since those in 
authority were most anxious to find out all that they 
could with regard to the Jacobite conspiracy, and on 
unfolding the sheet I could hardly believe that I read 
aright, for it was nothing less than the order for my 
release procured by Audrey at Hampton Court and 
bearing the signatures of the King and Queen. 

‘ You leave us under happier circumstances than most 
inmates of this room have done,’ said Lord Lucas with 
a smile. ‘ ’Twas from here that Colonel Sydney went 
to the scaffold; while for you, sir, my Lady Temple’s 
coach waits, and within it the fair lady from the north 
country whose story has made so much talk in the town. 
Egad! sir, you are a very lucky man, and I swear that 
I’m half inclined to envy you.’ 

He took leave of me very kindly. One of the warders 
carried down my possessions, and in a few minutes I 
stepped forth from that grim old gateway which I had 
entered with such dark forebodings, and was speedily 
being driven through the city streets. 

26 


402 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


Lady Temple plied me with questions, and Mistress 
Denham, with her kind hrown eyes, watched our hap- 
piness with an air of great content, while Audrey, with 
her hand clasped fast in mine, leant back in her corner 
of the coach, somewhat pale with the excitement and 
fatigue of the day, yet with the look of a happy child in 
her face. It seemed to me that our journey through 
life together began in that very hour, nor did I find it 
difficult to persuade her to let our marriage take place 
as soon as the arrangements could possibly be made. 
She answered frankly that every one from the Queen 
downward advised it, and that she was perfectly willing, 
if it could be managed, that the ceremony should, as 
far as possible, he a quiet one, with none of the usual 
merrymaking and publicity. 

And so it came to pass that by the time we had 
reached Norfolk Street all was settled, and Lady Temple 
had promised to be present at the church. I could have 
smiled to think how strangely this arrival at Sir William 
Denham’s contrasted with my arrival in the previous 
autumn with Sir Wilfrid Lawson. In truth, I had been 
a most moody and miserable fellow on that night, when, 
in company with Mr. Ambrose Newfold, the chaplain, 
I had waited, hungry and sore-hearted, in the little 
cheerless room at the back of the house. Now, with 
Audrey beside me, and the talk running upon the ar- 
rangements for our wedding, how different a place the 
world seemed to me! Yet the house was absolutely un- 
changed: there was old Thomas, the butler, with his 
familiar face, as shrewd and discriminating as ever, and 
there were Lady Denham with her kind greeting, and 
Sir William sitting over Willoughby on Birds as though 
he had never moved since the last time I saw him. 

They, one and all, gave me the most cordial of wel- 
comes, and when later in the evening Hugo Wharn- 
cliffe and his wife came in to congratulate us, Mary per- 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


403 


suaded him to sing the song that old Zinogle had tanght 
him, and in his wonderfully sweet tenor voice he gave 
us a rendering of that quaint old ballad of The Prickly 
Bush , which had rung in my head all through the time 
I had lain in the Tower. 

We were married one sunny October morning in the 
Church of St. Dunstan, Fleet Street, the very church 
where, twenty-three years before, my pretty mother had 
plighted her troth to John Radcliffe. As we passed 
out again into the street a strange thing happened. One 
of the horses belonging to the Denham coach began to 
rear and plunge, so that we were forced to stand for a 
minute before getting in. The sun was streaming down 
upon us in a flood of golden brightness, and it made 
Audrey’s white dress and close-fitting, fur-bordered 
bodice glisten like snow mountains on a bright, frosty 
day. She had her sunny brown hair dressed high in 
the way then fashionable, and had put on for the first 
time one of the white lace mantillas which London 
ladies wore in those days on their heads. Now, as we 
waited there while they strove to quiet the kicking 
horse, who should pass by but an aged, white-haired man 
in a suit of brown leather. It was none other than 
George Fox, the Quaker, and, to my surprise and pleas- 
ure, he at once recognised me. 

‘I have heard of thy imprisonment and thy many 
troubles,’ he said with that glance of the eyes which 
meant so much more than a conventional greeting. 
‘ And right glad am I, friend, to see that joy hath now 
been sent to thee. On this very spot long ago I saw thy 
mother. God grant thee a happier life; and forget not 
this waiting on the threshold my friends, ere going forth 
into the world. Just in this fashion should we each 
day learn to stand still in the Light ere going forth on 
our work.’ 

And with that he went on, and we saw him no more. 


404 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


For not many months later the old man, after the brief- 
est of illnesses, passed quietly away, to see face to face 
the Light he had so untiringly preached. 

‘ Mic/ said Audrey to me gently as we drove through 
Temple Bar, ‘ he has just the same heavenly look in his 
face as Cousin Nathaniel Radcliffe. We will take that 
quaint saying of his, “ Stand still in the Light,” as our 
motto/ 

We had been married on a Saturday, and after a quiet 
Sunday in Norfolk Street, we bade farewell to those who 
had been so good to us in London, and set off early on 
Monday morning by the York coach, having extorted a 
promise from Mistress Mary Denham to visit us in the 
north some time in the following summer. 

‘Now, were it any other lady who had made that 
promise I should doubt its fulfilment/ said Audrey, ‘ but 
Mary seems a born traveller, and I verily believe is never 
so happy as when seeing “ Fresh fields and pastures 
new.” She will really come and see us at Groldrill 
House, and with her, as Lady Temple told me, it is 
“ Once a friend always a friend.” ’ 

‘ What an extraordinary old gentleman ! 9 I exclaimed, 
drawing her attention to a tall, bent old man in a grey 
periwig and an enormous grey cloak which was so ar- 
ranged as completely to swathe his throat and mouth. 

‘ I do trust he is not coming inside/ said Audrey. 
‘ He will take up so much room/ 

And we both gave a sigh of relief when the old man 
climbed up beside the coachman. 

There certainly was something strange about this 
gentleman’s movements, and he afforded us much 
amusement. When the other travellers hastened from 
the coach to the inns at which we stopped on the road, 
eager to get warmed and fed, this old man of the cloak 
never put in an appearance. Whether he fed elsewhere 
we could not discover, but when we came out again there 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


405 


he was on the box-seat like Patience on a monument, 
and as he was extremely deaf and could only hear the 
driver’s remarks when they were actually bawled into his 
ear, it was impossible to show him any civility, or even 
to pass a remark as to the weather or the discomforts 
of the journey. We called him the ‘ Muffled Mystery,’ 
for none of the passengers seemed to know anything 
about him, and when at length we reached York and 
repaired to the house of the Denham’s friends where 
Audrey had rested on her journey to the south, the 
‘ Muffled Mystery ’ had only just clambered down from 
the coach-box, and was slowly counting out coin for 
the customary fees to the driver and the guard. 

On Sunday we rested at York, then set out for the 
rest of the journey on horseback, Audrey riding her 
mare Firefly, which had been stabled at York all this 
time, and I contenting myself with hiring on the road, 
or, as they call it, riding post. We were fortunate 
enough to fall in at Ripon with my old school-fellow, 
John Williamson, and his brother, so that, with our 
grooms, we made a fair cavalcade, and ran less risk of 
being attacked by highwaymen. And of this I was 
thankful enough, for when we reached Richmond they 
told us some uncomfortable stories of travellers who had 
lately been robbed, and I could see that Audrey was 
somewhat nervous. 

Perhaps on account of this we were all the more deter- 
mined to keep up her spirits on the next day’s journey, 
which chanced to be the worst of the road, betwixt Rich- 
mond and Appleby. At any rate we were all extremely 
merry, when just as the light was beginning to fade a 
little in the afternoon, and we knew that we had not 
much further to travel before reaching the town, the 
sound of a pistol-shot startled us into sudden silence. 

‘ There’s mischief afoot,’ said John Williamson as a 
second shot was heard. 4 Let us press on at a good pace; 


406 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


the sight of our cavalcade will drive off any highway- 
men/ 

Audrey was the very first to respond to the suggestion; 
when danger actually came she was never afraid, and 
touching up Firefly, she pressed on eagerly, thinking 
that perhaps we might help some luckless and solitary 
traveller. 

And, sure enough, directly we came in sight, a couple 
of villainous-looking highwaymen instantly made off at 
full speed, but their hapless victim lay face downwards 
on the strip of grass by the roadside, nor did he stir at 
our approach. 

‘ Oh, MicU said Audrey, ‘ it is the “Muffled Mys- 
tery! " See, poor old gentleman! there is blood dyeing 
his grey peruke/ 

We hastily dismounted and bent over the wounded 
man. He moaned faintly as we raised him and turned 
his face to the light. The thieves had left his rifled 
pockets hanging inside out, and had torn off his watch. 
The end of his broad watch-ribbon fluttered in the fresh 
breeze as though to tell its story. 

‘ Take off his peruke, and let us bathe his temples/ 
said John Williamson; but as I obeyed there was a gen- 
eral exclamation of surprise and dismay, and looking 
more closely at the wounded man, I saw that the 
stranger who had passed for an infirm and bent, old 
veteran was none other than Henry Brownrigg. 

We instinctively knew that no good purpose could 
have brought him back to the north, but for the moment 
there was nothing to be done save to try to staunch the 
blood which was flowing fast from a wound near the 
shoulder. We succeeded at length, but feared that a 
more dangerous wound had been caused by the second 
shot which had entered the body lower down and must 
have caused some bad internal injury, for it was evident 
that the Under-Sheriff was dying. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


407 


‘ Ride on to Appleby/ I said to the groom, ‘ and see if 
you can bring with all speed a leech and a litter to carry 
him to the inn/ 

The fellow hastily mounted and rode off at a gallop, 
while Audrey, who had been fetching water in a little 
flask from a stream by the roadside, drew near, and bend- 
ing down over the wounded man, began to bathe his 
face and to moisten his lips. For a moment, as I re- 
membered how the Under- Sheriff had brutally insulted 
her, how he had jilted her at the time of her need, and 
had tortured her by the cruel trap he had set in London, 
I could hardly endure to see her touch him. 

But death shames all selfish thoughts, and ere long 
I saw that she was only doing what any true woman 
would do for one in the last extremity. 

The cold water revived the dying man for a time, 
and opening his eyes, he looked at us in a furtive, 
shrinking way. 

‘ Don’t! ’ he gasped, as though the touch of her hands 
burnt him. ‘I was here for revenge! I made sure of 
being able to pick a quarrel with your husband betwixt 
York and Penrith and of forcing him at length to fight. 
But everything thwarts me! The Williamsons spoiled 
all, and now these vile thieves ■’ 

He broke off with a groan. 

‘ They have sorely hurt you, I fear,’ said Audrey. 
‘Yet they have saved you from being a murderer. 
Henry, have you no message for your mother? ’ 

He did not reply, but lay with closed eyes as though 
thinking over her words. The savage hatred slowly 
died out of his face, and seeing how painfully he la- 
boured for breath, I lifted him as gently as I could, 
which for the time seemed to ease him. 

He opened his eyes again and looked at me in a per- 
plexed way. 

‘What! is it you?’ he murmured very faintly. ‘I 


408 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


wronged you. Let John Williamson tell my mother 

that I ’ The words died away into a confused 

murmur, and his mind began to wander a little, for 
when next he spoke it was to call out passionately: 
‘ These robbers have thwarted me! Fm baulked 
again ! 5 

Audrey, with tears streaming down her face, once 
more moistened his parched lips, and this seemed to 
bring him to himself. 

‘ You are right/ he murmured. ‘ They have saved me 
from being a murderer/ 

John Williamson offered to take my place and support 
the dying man, but I feared to hurt him by moving, 
and indeed it seemed as if every struggling breath must 
be the last. We listened eagerly for the sound of horse- 
hoofs on the road, longing for the arrival of the leech. 
But all was still; only in the distance we could hear the 
lowing of cattle, and the cawing of the rooks as they 
swept by overhead on their homeward way. 

There was nothing more to be done. Audrey knelt 
on the grass with her face hidden in her hands, and I 
knew that she prayed for the man who had given her 
such bitter pain. The rest of us just waited, watching 
intently the shadow that was creeping over the face of 
the Under-Sheriff. 

At last I felt a convulsive struggle pass through the 
strong frame I supported. He half raised himself with 
a last effort. 

‘ My God ! 5 he gasped. ‘ Forgive ! 9 

And with that his head fell back again on my shoul- 
der. All was over. 

When the leech came from Appleby there was naught 
for him to do, save to assure us that we could not possi- 
bly have saved Henry Brownrigg’s life. The second 
pistol-shot had placed him beyond human help, and it 
only remained for us now to carry the body to Appleby, 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


409 


and to give evidence before the magistrate there as to 
the highwaymen who by this time had, of course, made 
good their escape. 

The news was carried to Mrs. Brownrigg at Millbeck 
Hall by the Williamsons, and the Under-Sheriff’s 
funeral took place at Crosthwaite five days later. 

Audrey was so greatly upset, however, by all she had 
been through, that we were forced to spend the next 
month with the Aglionbys at Penrith that she might 
recover her health before travelling on to Derwentwater. 
I w'as not sorry to have the chance of resting there, for 
it enabled me to see something of my grandfather Carle- 
ton at Carleton Manor, and his interest in the clearing 
up of the mystery as to my birth brought a genuine 
gleam of pleasure into the sad life the poor old man 
had for so many years led. 

Moreover, Penrith was within easy reach of our future 
home, and Sir Nicholas wrote to beg me to have all 
things put in order there, so that we could, after a brief 
stay with him at Lord’s Island, settle down comfortably 
in a house of our own. 

Audrey soon began to take keen interest in the ar- 
rangements, and, as soon as great-aunt Aglionby would 
allow her to undertake the expedition, we rode from 
Penrith to Ulleswater, and there, the day being fine and 
the water journey likely to prove less tiring, took a boat 
and sailed to Patterdale. 

It was the second anniversary of King William’s land- 
ing at Tor Bay, and much the same bright autumnal 
weather as it had been two years before when we had 
taken that ramble in Borrowdale and had found the 
miniature. 

Mrs. Aglionby had insisted on our bringing a number 
of rugs and wraps, and with these I made a warm couch 
for Audrey in the boat, and leaving the man to manage 
the sail, we lounged luxuriously in the stern, my little 


4io 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


wife’s head resting comfortably on my shoulder, for she 
was wearied with the ride from Penrith. 

The wind, though fresh, was not cold, and I never saw 
anything more wild and beautiful than the wooded 
shore and the rugged mountains which rose majestically 
in front of us. At the far end lay Helvellyn and a 
peaked mountain which the man told us was called 
Catchedecam. The early gales had thinned the trees, 
but there were russet leaves still lingering on the oaks, 
and crimson touches on the maples, besides a wonderful 
blending of every shade of brown and gold on the hills 
near Howtown, where the green of the grass only showed 
here and there in patches, so thickly did the brake fern 
grow. 

Just as we passed Gowbarrow Park the boatman called 
out: ‘ Look yonder, sir, there are the red deer.’ 

And glancing round, we saw one of the prettiest sights 
we had ever witnessed, for a herd of the beautiful crea- 
tures came down the grassy slope to drink, their branch- 
ing antlers and dappled coats showing out finely against 
the blue of the water. 

We seemed to be sailing quietly into a paradise of 
beauty, and Audrey’s delight, as we passed close under 
Stybarrow Crag, with its grey heights rising sheer up 
from the water, knew no hounds. 

‘ To tell the truth, Mic,’ she said, ‘ dearly as I love 
Derwentwater, ’tis a great comfort to feel we shall start 
afresh where there can he no sad memories. Do you 
think people feel like that when they reach the other 
world ? ’ 

* Perhaps they do,’ I said. ‘xAnyhow, dear heart, 
here we will try, as George Pox hade us, to stand still 
in the Light.’ 

The boatman set us down at the extreme end of Ulles- 
water in a somewhat marshy field, and a walk of about 
half a mile brought us to the Goldrill estate. The place 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


411 


had been untenanted, save by a farm bailiff and his 
sister, since the death of my father’s second wife, and it 
was greatly out of repair. But already the carpenters 
were at work, and a cheerful sound of hammering and 
whistling reached us as we walked down the avenue to 
the old grey house. 

For the first time I realised that I was the heir and 
that the place would indeed be my own; and for one 
who had eaten the bread of charity for twenty years and 
had thought himself lucky to earn an annual salary of 
twenty pounds since reaching manhood, the feeling was 
strange indeed. Was it all a dream? And should I 
wake to find myself back in the pele tower at Isel Hall, 
once more Sir Wilfrid Lawson’s private secretary? 

I drew my wife’s hand more closely within my arm, 
and looked down into her sweet face for comfort and 
assurance. 

We had just passed the side of the house and were 
stepping on to the terrace walk near the front windows, 
when I saw her pale cheek flush with pleasure, all her 
youth and beauty returning in that glow of delight 
which thrilled through her as she saw the exquisite 
view which greeted us. 

‘ Why, Mic!’ she cried, ‘I feel like the Queen of 
Sheba! The half was not told me! You spoke of the 
winding stream and the green fields, but you never said 
that glorious mountain rose just before our very win- 
dows. I have lost my bearings. Can it be Helvellyn? ’ 

‘ Indeed, no,’ I said, laughing. ‘ Beautiful as it is, 
it rejoices in the unromantic name of Low Hartsop 
Dod!’ 

And at that she laughed right merrily, vowing that 
we ought to christen it afresh. ‘ Though, after all,’ she 
added, ‘as I used to say to you in old days, Mic, why 
trouble about a name? ’ 

6 As I told you then, it makes all the difference some- 


412 


HOPE THE HERMIT 


times betwixt honour and dishonour/ I said, looking 
into her sweet grey eyes. ‘ Would you have wedded me, 
do you think, had I been forced always to remain 
Michael Derwent, the Borrowdale foundling? * 

‘ Mic/ she said earnestly, ‘ I would have loved you 
every bit as well and have wedded you, had I understood 
my own heart aright. But I was like a child at school 
that reckons amiss: all the sum worked out wrong and 
had to be sponged off the slate and begun once more. 
How happy a thing it is that one is allowed to start 
afresh! It hurts me to think that it has meant tears and 
grief and trouble to others beside myself, but perhaps 
’tis the only way we can learn our lessons/ 

As she spoke she clung more closely to me. 

I stooped to kiss her, and we stood there together in 
the sunlight watching the Goldrill Beck as it wound its 
peaceful way through the green pastures. 

The robins sang in the mountain-ash trees, making 
me think of that dark day when I had waited at the 
foot of the Styhead Pass and had had the vision of my 
mother; and with the bird’s blithe song there rose in 
me a confident hope that our lives, once so troubled, 
might pass serenely on — quietly serving the land like 
that winding stream — until they were merged in the 
wider life beyond, when 

‘ Long eternity shall greet our bliss 
With an individual kiss ; 

And joy shall overtake us as a flood.’ 


THE END. 



















> 































































' 






































A Selected List of Fiction 

Published by * « « « « « 

Longmans, Green, & Co., 

91 and 93 Fifth Avenue, » New York. 


BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 


Each volume illustrated. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


A Gentleman of France. 
The House of the Wolf. 
Under the Red Robe. 

My Lady Rotha. 

The Story of 


The Man in Black. 

New edition preparing. 

From the Memoirs of a 

Minister of France. 
Francis Cludde. 


Shrewsbury, with 24 Illustrations, Decorative Cover. $1.50. 
The Red Cockade, with 48 Illustrations, cloth, ornamental 
$1.50. 


BY H. RIDER HAGGARD. 


Each volume illustrated. Crown Svo, $1.25. 


The People of the Mist. 
Heart of the World. 
Joan Haste 
Dawn. 

Montezuma’s Daughter. 
Nada the Lily. 


Cleopatra. 

She. New 
The Wizard. 
Beatrice. 

The World’s Desire. 
Allan Quatermain. 


By Andrew Lan g. 

A Monk of Fife. A Romance of the Days of Jeanne D’Arc. 
Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25. 


By A. Conan Doyle. 

Micah Clarke. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 

The Captain of the Polestar, and Other Tales. Illustiated. 
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By Edna Lyall. 

Doreen. The Story of a Singer. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.50. 
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The Autobiography of a Truth. Cloth, 50 cents. 
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Hope the Hermit. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.50. 

By Mrs. Walford. 

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“ Ploughed,” and Other Stories. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. 

Iva Kildare. A Matrimonial Problem. Crown 8vo, $1.50. 
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By Clementina Black. 

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By Miss L. Dougall. 

Beggars All. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.00. 

What Necessity Knows. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.00. 

By P. Anderson Graham. 

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By Ida Lemon. 

Matthew Furth. A Story of London (East End) Life. $1.25. 

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By Henry Seton Merriman. 

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By Mrs. Molesworth. 

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By Mrs. Woods. 

Weeping Ferry. Crown 8vo, buckram cloth, $1.50. 


SHREWSBURY. 

A ROMANCE OF THE TIME OF WILLIAM AND MARY. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “THE HOUSE OF THE 

WOLF,” “MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 24 Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson. Crown Svo, 

Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“ Mr. Stanley Weyman has written a rattling good romantic story that is in every way 
worthy of the author of the ever-delightful 4 Gentleman of France.’ ” — New York Sun. 

“ Considered as Active literature, the novel is an achievement worthy of high . . . 
praise. The characters are projected with admirable distinctness ; the whole story and its 
incidents are well imagined and described ; the reader, while he cannot repress his contempt 
for the supposed narrator, is always interested in the stoiy, and there is an abundance of 
dramatic action. Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of the narrative style of the period 
without endeavoring, evidently, to adhere to the vocabulary and diction, or peculiarities of 
syntax. . . . Again we see that Mr. Weyman has no superior among living writers of 

romance.” — Philadelphia Press. 

“ Turning aside from mediaeval French scenes, Stanley J. Weyman takes up in ‘ Shrews- 
bury ’ an English theme, and he weaves from the warp and woof of history and fancy a vivid, 
unique, close- textured and enthralling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has produced in 

‘ Shrewsbury’ a novel that all admirers of his former books will be eager to read, and that 
will win for him new suffrages. The illustrations are drawn with skill and appreciation.” 

— Beacon, Boston. 

“ * Shrewsbury’ is a magnificent confirmation of Mr. Weyman’ s high estate in the world 
of fiction. 

Again he has proved in this, his latest novel, that the romantic treatment is capable, 
under a masterly hand, of uniting the thrill of imagination with the dignity of real life. His 
characters are alive, human, unforgetable. His scenes are unhackneyed, dramatic, power- 
ful. The action is sustained and consistent, sweeping one’s interest along irresistibly to a 
denouement at once logical and climactic. And through it all there glows that literary charm 
which makes his stories live even as those of Scott and Dumas live. . . . 

The whole novel is a work of genuine literary art, fully confirming the prediction that 
when the author of ‘A Gentleman of France’ once began to deal with the historical materials 
of his own country he would clinch his title to be ranked among the greatest of romantic 
writers.” — C hicago Tribune. 

“ Aside from the stoiy, which is remarkably well told, this book is of value for its fine 
pen pictures of William of Orange and his leading courtiers — a «tory of absorbing interest, 
but it differs materially from any of his other works. The best thing in the book is the 
sketch of Ferguson, the spy, and of the remarkable hold which he obtained over prominent 
men by means of his cunning and his malignancy. He dominates eveiy scene in which he 
appears. Some of these scenes have rarely been excelled in historical fiction for intensity of 
interest. Those who have not read it, and who are fond of the romance of adventure, will 
find it fulfils Mr. Balfour’s recent definition of the ideal novel — something which makes us 
forget for the time all worry and care, and transports us to another and more picturesque age.” 

— San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ A most readable and entertaining story. . . . Ferguson and Smith, the plotters, 
the mothers of the duke and Mary the courageous, who became the wife of Price, all seem 
very real, and with the other characters and the adventures which they go through make up 
an interest-holding book which can be honestly recommended to every reader of fiction.” 

— Boston Times. 

“A romance written in the author’s best vein. The character drawing is particularly 
admirable, and Richard Price, Ferguson, King William and Brown stand out in strong relief 
and with the most expressive vitality. The story is also interesting and contains many 
strong scenes, and one follows the adventures of the various characters with unabated in- 
terest from first page to last.”— Evening Gazette, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE, NEW YORK, 


THE RED COCKADE. 

A NOVEL OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “ THE HOUSE OF 

THE WOLF,” “MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown 8vo, 

Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter part of this century. . 

. . The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, the rising of those who have re- 

venges to feed, the burnings and the outrages are described in a masterly way. The attack 
on the castle of St. Alais, the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great building, 
and the escape of the young lovers— these incidents are told in that breathless way which 
Weyman has made familiar in other stories. It is only when one has finished the book and 
has gone back to reread certain passages that the dramatic power and the sustained passion 
of these scenes are clearly felt.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ ‘The Red Cockade,’ a story of the French Revolution, shows, in the first place, care- 
ful study and deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr. Weyman . . . has caught the spirit 

of the times. . . . The book is brimful of romantic incidents. It absorbs one’s interest 

from the first page to the last ; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the good 
and brave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance.” — Syracuse Post. 

“We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of the spirit of the high 
born and the low born which centuries of aristocratic tyranny and democratic suffering en- 
gendered in France. It is history which we read here, and not romance, but history which 
is so perfectly written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in which it 
is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare’s plays blends with the poetry which vital- 
izes and glorifies it.” — Mail and Express, New York. 

“ It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank among Weyman’s 
best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France its action is laid, and with marvellous 
skill the author has delineated the most striking types of men and women who made the Rev- 
olution so terrible.” — New York World. 

“‘The Red Cockade’ is a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of the eighteenth cen- 
tury and full of stirring romance. The tragic period of the French Revolution forms a frame 
in which to set the adventures of Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part he plays 
in those days of peril has a full measure of dramatic interest. . . . Mr. Weyman has 

evidently studied the history of the revolution with a profound realization of its intense 
tragedy.” — Detroit Free Press. 

“ The action of the story is rapid and powerful. The Vicomte’s struggle with his own 
prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends, the perils he encounters, and the 
great bravery he shows in his devotion to Denise are strikingly set forth, while the historical 
background is made vivid and convincing — the frenzy caused by the fall of the Bastile, the 
attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, all being described with dra- 
matic skill and verisimilitude. It is a fascinating and absorbing tale, which carries the reader 
with it, and impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and power 
can do.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, and marked with a 
fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse on Mr. Weyman s part. Regard- 
ing his varied and well-chosen characters one cares only to say that they are full of interest 
and admirably portrayed. . . • It is one of the most spirited stories of the hour, and one 

of the most delightfully freighted with suggestion.” — Chicago Interior. 

“With so striking a character for his hero, it is not wonderful that Mr. Weyman has 
evolved a story that for ingenuity of plot and felicity of treatment is equal to some of his 
best efforts. . . . ‘ The Red Cockade ’ is one of the unmistakably strong historical ro- 

mances of the season.” — Boston Herald. 

“We are greatly mistaken if the ‘ Red Cockade* does not take rank with the very 
best book that Mr. Weyman has written.” — Scotsman. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00, 91-93 FIFTH AYE, NEW YORK. 


A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE. 

Being: the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne, 

Sieur de Marsac. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF,” ETC. 

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. J. Ford. 

!2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 

“One of the best novels since ‘ Lorna Doone.* It will be read and then re-read for tht 
jnere pleasure its reading gives. The subtle charm of it is not in merely transporting the 
nineteenth-century reader to the sixteenth, that he may see life as it was then, but in trans- 
forming him into a sixteenth-century man, thinking its thoughts, and living its life in perfect 
touch and sympathy ... it carries the reader out of his present life, giving him a new 
and totally different existence that rests and refreshes him.” — N. Y. World. 

" No novelist outside of France has displayed a more definite comprehension of the very 
essence of mediaeval French life, and no one, certainly, has been able to set forth a depiction 
of it in colors so vivid and so entirely in consonance with the truth. . . . The characters 

in the tale are admirably drawn, and the narrative is nothing less than fascinating in its fine 
flavor of adventure.” — B eacon, Boston. 

“ We hardly know whether to call this latest work of Stanley J. Weyman a historical 
romance or a story of adventure. It has all the interesting, fascinating and thrilling charac- 
teristics of b^th. The scene is in France, and the time is that fateful ewntful one which 
culminated in Henry of Navarre becoming king. Naturally it is a story of plots and intrigue, 
of danger and of the grand passion, abounding in intense dramatic scenes anti most interest- 
ing situations. It is a romance which will rank among the masterpieces of historic fiction.” 

— Advertiser, Boston. 

" A romance after the style of Dumas the elder, and well worthy of being read by those 
who can enjoy stirring adventures told in true romantic fashion. . . . The great person- 

ages of the time — Henry III. of Valois, Henry IV., Rosny, Rambouillet, Turenne — are 
brought in skillfully, and the tragic and varied history of the time forms a splendid frame in 
which to set the picture of Marsac’s love and courage . . . the troublous days are well 

described and the interest is genuine and lasting, for up to the very end the author manages 
effects which impel the reader to go on with renewed curiosity. ’ — The Nation. 

“ A g-nuine and admirable piece of work. . . . The reader will not turn many pages 

before he finds himself in the grasp of a writer who holds his attention to the very last mo- 
ment of the story. The spirit of adventure pervades the whole from beginning to end. . . . 

It may be said that the narration is a delightful love story. The interest of the reader 
Is constantly excited by the development of unexpected turns in the relation of the principal 
lovers. The romance lies against a background of history truly painted. . . . The 

descriptions of the court life of the period and of the factional strifes, divisions, hatreds of th" 
age, are fine. . . . This story of those times is worthy of a very high place among histori- 

cal novels of recent years.”— Public Opinion. 

" Bold, strong, dashing, it is one of the best we have read for many years. We sat down 
for a cursory perusal, and ended by reading it delightedly through. . . . Mr. Weyman 

has much of the vigor and rush of incident of Dr. Conan Doyle, and this book ranks worthily 
beside * The White Company.’ . . . We very cordially recommend this book to the jaded 

novel reader who cares for manly actions more than for morbid introspection.” 

— The Churchman. 

“The book is not on’y good literature, it is a 'rattling good story,’ instinct with the 
Spirit of true adventure and stirring emotion. Of love and peril, intrigue and fighting, there 
is plenty, and many scenes could not have been bettered. In all his adventures, and they 
are many, Mar»ac acts as befits his epoch and his own modest yet gallant personality. Well- 
known historical figures emerge in telling fashion under Mr. Weyman’s discriminating and 
fascinating touch.” — A thenajum. 

“ I cannot fanev any reader, old or young, not sharing with doughty Crillon his admiration 
for M. de Marsac, who, though no swashbuckler, has a sword that leaps from its scabbard at the 
breath of insult. . . . There are several historical personages in the novel; there is, of 

course, a heroine, of great beauty and enterprise; but that true ‘Gentleman of France,* 
M. dr Marsac, with his perseverance and valor, dominates them all.” 

— Mr. James Payn in the Illustrated London News. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 PIETH AYE,, NEW YORE. 


MY LADY ROTHA. 

A ROMANCE OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ WAR. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “ UNDER THE RED ROBE * 
“THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.” 


With Eight Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


“Few writers of fiction who have appeared in England in the last decade have given 
their readers more satisfaction than Mr. Stanley J. Weyman, and no single writer of this 
number can be said to have approached him, much less to have equaled him in the romantic 
world of the historical novel ... he has the art of story-telling in the highest degree, 
the art which instinctively divines the secret, the soul of the story which he tells, and the 
rarer art, if it be not the artlessness, which makes it as real and as inevitable as life itself. 
Mis characters are alive, human, unforgetable, resembling in this »-espect those of Thackeray 
in historical lines and in a measure those of Dumas, with whom, and not inaptly, Mr. Wey- 
man has been compared. His literature is good, so good that we accept it as a matter of 
course, as we do that of Thackeray and Scott. . . . Mr. Weyman’s historical novels 

will live.”— New York Mail and Express. 

“ . . . differs signally from Mr. Weyman’s earlier published works. It is treated 

with the minuteness and lovingness of a first story which has grown up in the mind of the 
author for years. . . . Marie Wort is one of the bravest souls that ever moved quietly 

along the pages of a novel. She is so unlike the other feminine characters w horn Weyman 
has drawn that the difference is striking and adds significance to this one book. . . . 

• My Lady Rotha ’ is full of fascinating interest, all the more remarkable in a work adhering 
so strictly to historical truth.” — Evening Post, Chicago. 

“This last book of his is brimful of action, rushing forward with a roar, leaving the 
reader breathless at the close ; for if once begun there is no stopping place. The concep- 
tion is unique and striking, and the culmination unexpected. The author is so saturated 
with the spirit of the times of which he writes, that he merges his personality in that of the 
supposititious narrator, and the virtues and failings of his men and women are set forth in a 
fashion which is captivating from its very simplicity. It is one of his best novels.” 

—Public Opinion. 

“Readers of Mr. Weyman’s novels will h ave no hesitation in pronouncing his just pub- 
lished * My Lady Rotha ’ in every way his greatest and most artistic production. We 
know of nothing moie fit, both in conception and execution, to be classed with the immortal 
Waverleys than this his latest work. ... A story true to life and true to the times 
which Mr. Weyman has made such a careful study.” — The Advertiser, Boston. 

“ No one of Mr. Weyman’s books is better than * My Lady Rotha ’ unless it be • Under 
the Red Robe,’ and those who have learned to like his stories of the old days when might 
made right will appreciate it thoroughly. It is a good book to read and read again.” 

— New York World. 

“ . . . As good a tale of adventure as any one need ask ; the picture of those war- 

like times is an excellent one, full of life and color, the blare of trumpets and the flash of 
steel -and toward the close the description of the besieged city of Nuremberg and of the 
battle under Wallenstein’s entrenchments is masterly.” — I’oston Traveller. 

“The loveliest and most admirable character in the story is that of a young Catholic girl, 
while in painting the cruelties and savage barbarities of war at that period the brush is held 
by an impartial hand. Books of adventure and romance are apt to be cheap and sensational. 
Mr. Weyman’s stories are worth tons of such stuff. They are thrilling, exciting, absorbing, 
interesting, and yet clear, strong, and healthy in tone, written by a gentleman and a man of 
sense a»d taste.” — Sacred Heart Review, Boston. 

" Mr. Weyman has outdone himself in this remarkable book. . . . The whole story 

1» told with consummate skill. The plot is artistically devised and enrolled before the read- 
er’s eyes. The language is simple and apt, and the descriptions are graphic and terse. The 
charm of the story takes hold of the reader on the very first page, and holds him spell-bound 
to the very end.” — New Orleans Picayune. 


tOHGMAHS, GREEK, & 00, 91-93 FIFTH AVE.. HEW YORK. 


UNDER THE RED ROBE. 

A ROMANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “ THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF,” ETC. 

With 1 2 Full-page Illustrations by R. Caton Woodvllle. 
1 2mo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


Mr. Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine things and describes them 
splendidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on every page of his new 
story. Its interest never flags, for his resource is rich, and it is, moreover, the kind of 
a story that one cannot plainly see the end of from Chapter I. . . . the story reveals 
a knowledge of French character and French landscape that was surely never ac- 
quired at second hand. The beginning is wonderfully interesting.”— New York Times. 

“ As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as ‘ Ivanhoe ’ or ‘ Henry Esmond ’ 
was of theirs. Each later story has shown a marked advance in strength and treat- 
ment, and in the last Mr. Weyman . . . demonstrates that he has no superior 
among living novelists. . . . There are but two characters in the story — his art 
makes all other but unnoticed shadows cast by them — and the attention is so keenly 
fixed upon one or both, from the first word to the last, that we live in their thoughts 
and see the drama unfolded through their eyes.” — N. Y. World. 

“ It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus to challenge com- 
parison with Dumas’s immortal musketeers ; but the result justifies the boldness. . . . 
The plot is admirably clear and strong, the diction singularly concise and telling, and 
the stirring events are so managed as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few 
better novels of adventure than this have ever been written. ’’—Outlook, New York. 

“ A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has a positive 
talent for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells, and the characters stanc 
out with life-like distinctness. Some of the most fascinating epochs in French history 
have been splendidly illuminated by his novels, which are to be reckoned among the 
notable successes of later nineteenth-century fiction. This story of ‘ Under the Red 
Robe ’ is in its way one of the very best things he has done. It is illustrated with 
rigor and appropriateness from twelve full-page designs by R. Caton Woodville.” 

— Boston Beacon. 

“ It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple and transparent 
English, and quivering with tense human feeling from the first word to the last. It is 
not a book that can be laid down at the middle of it. The reader once caught in its 
whirl can no more escape from it than a ship from the maelstrom.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 

“The ‘red robe’ refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story is laid. 
The descriptions of his court, his jud’cial machinations and ministrations, his partial 
defeat, stand out from the book as vivid as flame against a background of snow. For 
the rest, the book is clever and interesting, and overflowing with heroic incident. 
Stanley Weyman is an author who has apparently come to stay.” — Chicago Post. 

“ In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his ‘Gentleman of France,’ 
although his new heroes are of different mould. The book is full of adventure and 
characterized by a deeper study of character than its predecessor.” 

— Washington Post. 

“Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success. . . . The author artfully 

E ursues the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have in Berault, the 
ero, a more impressive Marsac ; an accomplished duelist, telling the tale of his own 
adventures, he first repels and finally attracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu, 
and a man of honor. Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set down 
by a master-hand,”— Philadelphia Press. 


LONGMANS, GREEN. & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW TORE, 


THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” ‘‘UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “THE HOUSE OF 

THE WOLF,” “MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


“ A delightfully told and exciting tale of the troublesome times of Bloody Mary in Eng- 
land and the hero— every inch a hero— was an important actor in them.” 

— New Orleans Picayune. 

“ It is a highly exciting tale from beginning to end, and very well told.” 

— New York Herald. 

“One of the best historical novels that we have read for some time. . . . It is a 

story of the time of Queen Mary, and is possessed of great dramatic power. . . . In char- 

acter-drawing the story is unexcelled, and the reader will follow the remarkable adventures 
of the three fugitives with the most intense interest, which end with the happy change on 
the accession of Elizabeth to the throne. — Home Journal, Ijoston. 

“ The book presents a good historical pen-picture of the most stirring period of English 
civilization, and graphically describes scenes and incidents which undoubtedly happened. 
The style is plain, and the book well worthy of careful perusal. 

“ Humor and pathos are in the pages, and many highly dramatic scenes are described 
with the ability of a master hand.” — I tem, Philadelphia. 

“ Is worthy of careful reading; it is a unique, powerful, and very interesting story, the 
scene of which is laid alternately in England, the Netherlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ; 
the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner plays a leading part in this romance, 
which presents in good shape the manners and customs of the period.” 

— Buffalo Commercial. 

“ A romance of the olden days, full of fire and life, with touches here and there of love 
and politics. . . . We have in this book a genuine romance of Old England, in which 

soldiers, chancellors, dukes, priests, and high-born dames figure. The time is the period of 
the war with Spain. Knightly deeds abound. The story will more than interest the reader; 
it will charm him, and he will scan the notices of forthcoming books for another novel by 
Weyman.” — Public Opinion, New York. 

“ Its humor, its faithful observance of the old English style of writing, and its careful 
adherence to historic events and localities, will recommend it to all who are fond of historic 
novels. The scenes are laid in England and in the Netherlands in the last four years of 
Queen Mary’s life.”-- Literary World, Boston. 

“ Is distinguished by an uncommon display of the inventive faculty, a Dumas-like ingenu- 
ity in contriving dangerous situations, and an enviable facility for extricating the persecuted 
hero from the very jaws of destruction. The scene is laid alternately in England, the Neth- 
erlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ; the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner 
plays a leading part in this romance, which presents in good shape the manners and customs 
of the period. It is useless dividing the story into arbitrary chapters, for they will not serve 
to prevent the reader from ‘devouring’ the ‘ Story ot Francis Cludde,’ from the stormy 
beginning to its peaceful end in the manor-house at Coton End.” 

— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ This is certainly a commendable story, being full of interest and told with great 
spirit. . . . It is a capital book for the young, and even the less hardened nerves of the 

middle-aged will find here no superfluity of gore or brutality to mar their pleasure in a 
bright and clean tale of prowess and adventure.” — Nation, New York. 

“ A well-told tale, with few, if any, anachronisms, and a credit to the clever talent of 
Stanley J. Weyman.” — Springfield Republican. 

“ It is undeniably the best volume which Mr. Weyman has given us, both in literary 
style and unceasing interest.” — Yale Literary Magazine. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YORK. 


FROM THE MEMOIRS 
OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” "UNDER THE RED ROBE,” ETC., ETC. 

With 36 Illustrations, of which 1 5 are full-page. 
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


" A collection of twelve tales, each one of which is to be classed as a masterpiece, 
so subtle and strong is it in the revelation of character, so impressive its portrayal 
of the times and the scenes with which it deals. . . . Mr. Weyman has produced 
a really brilliant book, one that will appeal alike to the lovers of literature, of adven- 
ture, and to those who demand in fiction the higher intellectual quality. . . . The 
chances are that those who take it up will not put it down again with a page or even 
a line unread.” — Boston Beacon. 

" To read these merry tales of adventure and to lose all sense, for the moment, 
of life’s complexities, is a refreshment ; it is to drink again at the pure spring of 
romance. . . . Weyman . . . has caught more of the inner spirit of sixteenth 

century life than any romancer since Scott.” — Oregonian, Portland, Ore. 

" These briefer tales have all the charm and attractiveness that attach to their 
author’s longer romances, and many of the leading characters of the latter figure in 
them. He catches the attention of the reader at the very outset and holds it to the end ; 
while his skill as a story-teller is so great that his characters become real beings to us, 
and the scenes which he describes seem actual and present occurrences as he narrates 
them.” — Sacred Heart Review, Boston. 


THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF. 

A ROMANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “ A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” ETC. 


With Frontispiece and Vignette by Charles Kerr. 
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


A delightful volume . . . one of the brightest, briskest tales I have met with for a 

long time. Dealing with the Eve of St. Bartholomew it portrays that night of horror from a 
point entirely new, and, we may add, relieves the gloom by many a flash and gleam of sun- 
shine. Best of all is the conception of the Vidfime. His character a’one would make the 
book live.”— Critic, N. Y. 

“ Recounted as by an eye witness in a forceful way with a rapid and graphic style that 
commands interest and admiration. 

Of the half dozen stories of St. Bartholomew’s Eve which we have read this ranks first 

in vividness, delicacy of perception, reserve power, and high principle.” 

—Christian Union, N. Y. 

“ A romance which, although sboit, deserves a place in literature along side of Chailes 
Reade’s ' Cloister and the Hearth.’ . . . We have given Mr. Weyman s book not only 

a thorough reading with great interest, but also a more than usual amount of space because 
we consider it one of the best examples in recent fiction of how thrillmg and even bloody 
adventures and scenes may be described in a style that is graphic and true to detail, and yet 

delicate, quaint, and free from all coarseness and brutality.” 

—Commercial Advertiser, N. Y. 


LONGMANS, GKEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YOEK. 


A MONK OF FIFE. 

A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF JEANNE D'ARC. 

Done into English from the manuscript in the Scots College of Ratisbon 

By ANDREW LANG. 

With Frontispiece. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


" Granting that Norman Leslie was no myth, and was truly admonished by his 
superior to set down these facts in writing, and with all reverence for this clever monk, 
who kept such an excellent account of the exciting scenes he witnessed in his youth, 
we must believe that the delightful charm which pervades this quaintly pathetic tale 
is due to no one as much as to Mr. Lang. The Maid of Orleans takes a clearer, 
sweeter identity for his telling, and the reader must insist upon feeling indebted to 
this incomparable writer for one of the most beautiful and touching romances given 
to the world for many a long day.”— Chicago Evening Post. 

“ Mr. Lang's portrait of the Maid is a beautiful one. He does not etherealize 
her unduly — indeed he rather insists on her most human characteristics ; and his 
portrait gains in lifelikeness from the skill with which he has woven into the story of 
her career as an inspired prophet and leader, little incidents showing her as the simple- 
hearted girl. The hero is supposed to be one of her body-guard, and his sweetheart 
one of her near friends. Although the Maid is really the central figure, the story of 
the lovers and the dangers of the hero and the heroine is so skillfully woven in that 
the book is nothing like a history of France at the time, but is a real romance; and 
because it is a real romance lets us into the spirit of the time better than any history 
that ever was or could be written. It is dangerous to prophesy just after the reading 
of any novel, but it seems to us that this is one of the novels that ought to live, at 
least for a generation or two.”— Colorado Springs Gazette. 

“A very charming tale of the days of Joan of Arc, his leading characters being 
chosen from the band of Scotchmen who went to France and participated in the 
stirring campaign under the leadership of the Maid of Orleans which rescued France 
from the English. The many readers and students who are just now attracted by the 
revival of interest in the character and achievements of Jeanne D'Arc should by all 
means read Mr. Lang’s romance.”— Review of Reviews, N. Y. 

“ The story is admirably told in a style which reminds one of Stevenson’s best 
work in historical fiction.” — Boston Traveler. 

“ A brilliant, vivid, dramatic, and historically consistent depiction of the career of 
that wonderful maiden Joan of Arc is presented by Andrew Lang in his skillfully 
wrought, close-textured, and adventurous romance called ‘A Monk of Fife.’ ... It 
has from beginning to end a lifelike coloring that the sympathetic reader will find 
nothing less than enthralling.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ Mr. Lang has made a most pleasing and readable romance, full of love and 
fighting adventures and exciting episodes. There is a quaintness about the recital in 
keeping with the period and which is an added charm. The story of Joan of Arc has 
been many times told, but never any more interestingly than in this book.” 

— Boston Times. 

“ A delightful romance. . . . Mr. Lang has made admirable use of his material 
and has given us a quaint and stirring tale that is well worth reading.” 

— Brooklyn Eagle. 

“ A picture, rich in detail, of the days of the Maid of Orleans ; and it is abundantly 
clear that the picture is drawn by one who knows the period, not only in its dry, 
prosaic sequence of battles and marches, but in the spirit and the speech of the time 
. . . a love story hardly less graceful and delicate than that of Aucassin and Nico- 
lete; . . . the book will be well worth reading as pure romance, by turns idyllic 
and epic, and that it has as well a distinct value from its careful presentation of a 
period so confusing to the novice in history.” — Critic, N. Y. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-03 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


HEART OF THE WORLD. 


A STORY OF MEXICAN ADVENTURE. 

By H. RIDER HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR OF “ SHE,” “MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER,” “ THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,*' BTC. 


With 1 3 full-page Illustrations by Amy Sawyer 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


** The adventures of Ignatio and his white friend will compare for strangeness with any 
that the writer has imagined. And the invention of the city and people of the heart, of the 
secret order, with its ritual and history, and the unforeseen crisis of the tale, shows that the 
quality that most distinguishes the author’s former works is still his in abundance. . . . 
The tale as a whole is so effective that we willingly overlook its improbability, and so novel 
that even those who have read all of Rider Haggard’s former works will still find something 
surprising in this.” — The Critic. 

“Here are strange adventures and wonderful heroisms. The scene is laid in Mexico. 
The story rehearses the adventures of an athletic Englishman who loves and weds an 
Indian princess. There are marvelous descriptions of the 1 City of the Heart,’ a mysteri- 
ous town hemmed in by swamps and unknown mountains.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ Has a rare fascination, and in using that theme Mr. Haggard has not only hit upon 
a story of peculiar charm, but he has also wrought out a story original and delightful to 
even the most jaded reader of the novel of incident.” — Advertiser, Boston. 

“It is a fascinating tale, and the reader will not want to put the book down till he has 
read the last word.” — Picayune, New Orleans, 

“The lovers of Rider Haggard’s glowing works have no reason to complain of his latest 
hook. . . . The story is, all in all, one of the most entertaining of the author’s whole 

list.” — Traveller, Boston. 

“ In its splendor of description, weirdness of imagery, its astonishing variety of detail, 
and the love story which blends with history and fantasy, the book without doubt is a 
creation distinct from previous tales. Maya, the Lady of the Heart, is an ideal character. 
. . . Interest is sustained throughout.” — Post, Chicago. 

“The success of Mr. Haggard’s stories consists in the spirit of adventure which runs 
through them, in their rapid succession of incidents, in the hustle which animates their 
characters, and in the trying situations in which they arc placed. . . . this last story 

. . . introduces his readers ... to a comparatively new field of fiction in the evolu- 

tion of an ancient Aztec tradition concerning the concealed existence of a wonderful Golden 
City. . . .’’—Mail and Express, New York. 

“A thrilling story of adventure in Mexico. It is doubtful if he has surpassed in vivid 
coloring his delineation of the character of ‘Maya.’ This work is really a notable addition 
to the great body of romance with which his name is associated.” — Press, Philadelphia. 

“ This romance is really one of the best he has given us.” — 1 imes, Philadelphia. 

“ When the love of romance shall die in the human heart we may bid farewell to all that 
is best in fiction. ... In this story we have the same reckless dash of imagination and 
the same gorgeous profusion of barbaric scenes and startling adventure which have always 
characterized Mr. Haggard’s works.” — Independent, New York. 

“ His latest, and one of his most powerful stories. It shows the same trenchant, effective 
way of dealing with his story ; and the same power in open, startling situations. It will 
jive the reader some new idea of that ancient people, the Aztecs, as well as of the more mod- 
xn Mexicans. It is as strong as ‘ King Solomon’s Mines.’ ” — 'I imes, Hartford. 


LONGMANS, GBEEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW TOEK. 


MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER. 


By h. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OP ** SHE,” “ ALLAN QUATERMAIN,” “ NADA THE LILY,” ETC. 

With 24 full-page Illustrations and Vignette by Maurice 
Grelffenhagen. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.25. 


“Adventures that stir the reader’s blood and, like magic spells, hold his attention with 
power so strong that only the completion of the novel can satisfy his interest. ... In 
this novel the motive of levenge is treated with a subtle power . . . this latest production 

of Mr. Haggard blends with the instruction of the historical novel the charm of a splendid 
romance.’’ — Public Opinion. 

“ Mr. Haggard has done nothing better ... it may well be doubted if he has ever 
done anything half so good. The tale is one of the good, old-fashioned sort, filled with the 
elements of romance and adventure, and it moves on from one thrilling situation to another 
with a celerity and verisimilitude that positively fascinate the reader . . . The story is 

told with astonishing variety ol detail, and in its main lines keeps close to historical truth. 
The author has evidently written with enthusiasm and entire love of his theme, and the result 
is a really splendid piece of romantic literature. The illustrations, by Maurice GrcifFenhagen, 
are admirable in spirit and technique.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ Has a good deal of the quality that lent such interest to ' King Solomon’s Mines ’ and 
‘Allan Quatermain.’ . . . England, Spain, and the country which is now Mexico afford 

the field of the story, and a great number of most romantic and blood-stirring activities occur 
in each ... a successful story well constructed, full of devious and exciting action, 
and we believe that it will find a multitude of appreciative readers.” — Sun, N. Y. 

' It is a tale of adventure and romance, with a fine historical setting and with a vivid 
reproduction of the manners and people ot the age. The plot is handled with dexterity and 
skill, and the reader’s interest is always seen. 'J here is, it should also be noted, nothing like 
rulgar sensationalism in the treatment, and the literary quality is sound throughout. 

Among the very best stories of love, war, and romance that have been written.” 

— The Outlook. 


" Is the latest and best of that popular writer’s works of fiction. It enters a new 
field not before touched by previous tales from the same author. In its splendor of descrip- 
tion, weirdness of imagery, and wealth of startling incidents it rivals ‘ King Solomon’s Mines ’ 
and other earlier stories, but shows superior strength in many respects, and presents novelty 
of scene that must win new and more enduring fame for its talented creator. . . . The 

analysis of human motives and emotions is more subtle in this work than in any previous 
production by Mr. Haggard. The story will generally be accorded highest literary rank 
among the author’s works, and will prove of fascinating interest to a host of readers.” 

— Minneapolis Spectator. 


“ Is full of the magnificence of the Aztec reign, and is quite as romantic and unbelievable 
as the most fantastic of his earlier creations.” — Book Buyfr. 

“We should be disposed to rank this volume next to 'King Solomon’s Mines’ in order 
of interest and merit among the author’s works.” — Literary World. Boston. 

" It is decidedly the most powerful and enjoyable book that Mr. Rider Haggard ha* 
written, with the single exception of ‘ Jess.’ ” — Acadfmy. 

•* Mr. Haggard has rarely done anything better than this romantic and interesting narra- 
tive. Throughout the story we a>e hurried from one thrilling experience to another, and the 
whole book is written at a level of sustained passion, which gives it a very absorbing hold on 
our imagination. A special word of praise ought to be given to the excellent illustrations.” 

. , , .... , . . — Daily Telegraph. 

Perhaps the best 01 all the author s stones. 

The great distinguishing quality of Rider Haggard is this magic power of seizing and 
holding his readers so that they become absorb- d and abstracted from all earthly things while 

. . This romance 


tb-ir eyes devour the page. 


A romance must have ‘ grip. 


possesses the quality of ’grip’ in an eminent degree.” — W alter Bksant in the Author. 

“ The story is both graphic and exciting, . . . and tells of the invasion of Cortes; 

but there are antecedent passages in England and Spain, for the hero is an English adven- 
turer who finds his way through Spain to Mexico on a vengeful quest. The vengeance is cer- 
tainly satisfactory, but it is not reached until the hero has had as surprising a series of perils 
ind -Ft sues as even the fertile imagination of the author ever devised.” — Dial, Chicago. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YOKE 


JOAN HASTE 

A NOVEL. 

By H. RIDER HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR OP “ SHE,” “ HEART OF THE WORLD,” “ THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,” ETC., KTC 

With 20 full-page Illustrations by F. S. Wilson, 
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ It is less adventurous in theme, the tone is more quiet, and the manner more 
in keeping with the so-called realistic order of fiction than anything Mr. Haggard has 
heretofore published. ‘ Joan Haste ’ is by far the most earnest, and in many ways the 
most impressive work of Mr. Haggard’s that has yet been printed. The insight into 
character which it displays is almost invariably keen and true. Every personality in 
the story is fully alive, arid individual traits of thought and action are revealed little 
by little as the narrative progresses, until they stand forth as definite and consistent 
creations.”— The Boston Beacon. 

“ All the strong and striking peculiarities that have made Mr. Haggard’s earlier 
works so deservedly popular are repeated here in a new spirit. Not only that, but 
his literary execution shows an enlarged skill and betrays the master-hand of self- 
restraint that indicate maturity of power. His conception of character is improved by 
the elimination of all crudeness and haste, and his delineations are consequently closer 
to life. One is reminded strongly of Dickens in his admirable drawing of minor char- 
acters. Mrs. Bird is such a character. . . . The illustrations of the book are nu- 
merous and strikingly good. Many of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and move the 
feelings to the higher pitch. . . . Even in the little concerns of the story the wealth 

of its imagination appears, glowing in the warmth of its unstinted creations. There is 
a splendor in his description, a weird spirit in his imagery, a marvelous variety of 
detail, and at all points a creative force that give a perpetual freshness and newness to 
the fiction to which he gives his powers. To take up one of his fascinating books is 
to finish it, and this story of ‘Joan Haste’ is not to be outdone by the best of them all. 
The strength, emphasis, and vigor of his style as well as of his treatment is to be 
credited to none but superior gifts and powers. . . . ‘Joan Haste’ will become 
the favorite of everybody.” —Boston Courier. 

“ Mr. Haggard’s new story is a sound and pleasing example of modern English 
fiction ... a book worth reading. ... Its personages are many and well 
contrasted, and all reasonably human and interesting.” — New York Times. 

“ In this pretty, pathetic story Mr. Haggard has lost none of his true art. . . . 
In every respect ‘Joan Haste’ contains masterly literary work of which Mr. Haggard 
has been deemed incapable by some of his former critics. Certainly no one will call 
his latest book weak or uninteresting, while thousands who enjoy a well-told story of 
tragic, but true love, will pronounce ‘Joan Haste’ a better piece of work than Mr. 
Haggard’s stories of adventure.” — Boston Advertiser. 

“ This story is full of startling incidents. It is intensely interesting.” 

—Cleveland Gazette. 

“ The plot thickens with the growth of the story, which is one of uncommon interest 
and pathos. The book has the advantage of the original illustrations.” 

—Cleveland World. 

‘“Joan Haste’ is really a good deal more than the ordinary novel of English 
country life. It is the best thing Haggard has done. There is some character sketch- 
ing in it that is equal to anything of this kind we have had recently.” 

—Courier, Lincoln, Neb. 

“ In this unwonted field he has done well. ‘Joan Haste ’ is so far ahead of his for- 
mer works that it will surprise even those who have had most confidence in his ability. 

To those who read Thomas Hardy’s ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles ’ the atmosphere 
and incidents of ‘Joan Haste ’ will seem familiar. It is written along much the same 
lines, and in this particular it might be accused of a lack of originality; but Haggard 
harcome dangerously close to beating Hardy in his own field. Hardy’s coarseness is 
missing, but Hardy’s power is excelled.” — Munsey’s Magazine. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00.. 91-03 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW TORE. 


THE 


PEOPLE OF THE MIST. 

By H. RIDER HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR OF “ SHE,” “ ALLAN QUATERMAIN,” “ MONTEZUMA’S DAUOttTER,” ETC., ETC. 

With 16 full-page Illustrations by Arthur Layard. Crown 

8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 


“ Out of Africa, as all men know, the thing that is new is ever forthcoming. The ol<* 
style is true with regard to Mr. Haggard’s romances, and everybody concerned is to be con 
gratulated upon the romancer's return to the magical country where lies the land of Kor. 
Africa is Mr. Haggard's heaven of invention. Let him be as prodigal as he may, thence 
flows an exhaustless stream of romance, rich in wonders new and astonishing. ‘ The People 
of the Mist ’ belongs to the sphere of * She ’ in its imaginative scope, and, as an example of 
the story-teller’s art, must be reckoned of the excellent company of ‘ King Solomon’s 
Mines * and its brethren. We read it at one spell, as it were, hardly resisting that effect of 
fascination which invites you, at the critical moments of the story, to plunge ahead at i 
venture to know what is coming, and be resolved as to some harrowing doubt of dilemma 
There is no better test of the power of a story than this. . . .*' — Saturday Review. 

“ The lawyer, the physician, the business man, the teacher, find in these novels, teem- 
ing with life and incident, precisely the medicine to rest tired brains and ‘ to take them out 01 
themselves.' There is, perhaps, no writer of this present time whose works are read more 
generally and with keener pleasure. The mincing words, the tedious conversations, the 
prolonged agony of didactic discussion, characteristic of the ordinary novel of the time, find 
no place in the crisp, bright, vigorous pages of Mr. Haggard’s books. . . . ‘ The People 

of the Mist ’ is what we expect and desire from the pen of this writer ... a deeply 
interesting novel, a fitting companion to ‘ Allan Quatermain.’ ” — Public Opinion. 

“ The story of the combat between the dwarf Otter and the huge ‘ snake,’ a crocodile 
of antediluvian proportions, and the following account of the escape of the Outram party, 
is one of the best pieces of dramatic fiction which Mr. Haggard has ever written.” — Bos- 
ton Advertiser. 

“ One of his most ingenious fabrications of marvellous adventure, and so skilfully is it 
done that the reader loses sight of the improbability in the keen interest of the tale. Two 
loving and beautiful women figure in the narrative, and in his management of the heroine 
and her rival the author shows his originality as well as in the sensational element which is 
his peculiar province.” — Boston Beacon. 

“‘The People of the Mist’ is the best novel he has written since ‘She,’ and it runs 
that famous romance very close indeed. The dwarf Otter is fully up to the mark of Rider 
Haggard’s best character, and his fight with the snake god is as powerful as anything the 
author has written. The novel abounds in striking scenes and incidents, and the read- 
er’s interest is never allowed to flag. The attack on the slave kraal and the rescue of Juanna 
are in Mr. Haggard’s best vein.” — Charleston News. 

“ It has all the dash and go of Haggard’s other tales of adventure, and few readers will 
be troubled over the impossible things in the story as they follow the exciting exploits of the 
hero and his redoubtable dwarf Otter. . . . Otter is a character worthy to be classed 

with Umslopogus, the great Zulu warrior. Haggard has never imagined anything more ter- 
ror-inspiring than the adventures of Leonard and his party in the awful palace of the Chil 
dren of Mist, nor has he ever described a more thrilling combat than that between the dwari 
and the huge water snake in the sacred pool.”— San Francisco Chronicle. 

" It displays all of this popular author’s imagery, power to evoke and combine miraculous 
incidents, and skill in analyzing human motives and emotions in the most striking manner. 
He is not surpassed by any modern writer of fiction for vividness of description or keenness 
of perception and boldness of characterization. The reader will find here the same qualities 
in full measure that stamped * King Solomon’s Mines,’ ‘Jess,’ * She,’ and his other earlier 
romances with their singular power. The narrative is a series of scenes and pictures ; the 
events are strange to the verge of ghoulishness: the action of the story is tireless, and the 
reader is held as with a grip not to be shaken off.” — Boston Courier. 

“ Sometimes we are reminded of ‘ King Solomon’s Mines * and sometimes of ‘ She,’ but the 
mixture has the same elements of interest, dwells in the same strange land of mystery and 
adventure, and appeals to the same public that buys and reads Mr. Haggard’s works for the 
sake of the rapid adventure, the strong handling of improbable incident, and the fascination 
of the supernatural." — Baltimore Sun. 


LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO., 91-02 riETTI AVF,, NEW YOBS, 


THE WIZARD. 

By H. RIDER HAGGARD, 

huthor of “she,” “king Solomon’s mines,” “joan haste,” etc., etc. 

With 1 9 full-page Illustrations by Charles Kerr. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $ 1 .25. 

hoc hiiH OWe an ex .^. itin ^> delightful evening once more to a pen-say a voice— which 
has held me a willing prisoner m a grasp of iron. It is now ten years ago I think 

• 1 4if^* I a f aVe *f afi P rd my opinion that for the rest of his hfe he would have 

Sne always with him to be compared with what might follow. That incomparable 
romance, indeed, has never been surpassed by any liv ing writer. Rider Haggard s 
the possessor of an imagination stronger, more vivid, more audacious than is found in 
a “L° 5 e . r writer of the time. I say this in order to introduce his latest work, ‘ The 
\\ izaid. It is only a shoit tale too short — but it shows imaginative power that makes 
it worthy to follow after She.’ ’’—Sir Walter Besant, in “ The Queen.” 

1 he scene of this thrilling story is laid in Africa, but in many respects it is a new 
departure for the writer. . . . has never written anything more pathetic or with 

greater force than this tale of a missionary venture and a martyr’s death. The ‘ Pass- 
ing Over is told with a simple beauty of language which recalls the last passages in 
the life of the martyred Bishop Hannitigton. As for the improbabilities, well, they aie 
cleverly told, and we are not afraid to say that we rather like them ; but Haggard has 
never achieved a conception so beautiful as that of Owen, or one that he has clothed 
with so great a semblance of life.”— Pacific Churchman, San Francisco. 

, . * Hie Wizard ’ is one of his most vivid and brilliant tales. Mitacles are no new 

things in the frame-work used by the writers of fiction, but no one has attempted just 
the use of them which Haggard makes in this novel. It is so entirely new, so abso- 
lutely in line with the expressed beliefs of devout folk everywhere, that it ought to 
strike a responsive chord in the popular heart as did ‘ Ben Hur,’ and should be equally 
successful.”— Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 


“ Mr. Haggard gives full play in the history of the conversion of the Son of Fire 
to his strong imagination, and he has succeeded admirably in conveying an earnest 
religious lesson, while telling one of his most exciting and entertaining stories.” 

—Beacon, Boston. 

“It is to be read at one sitting, without resisting that fascination which draws you 
on from one to another critical moment of the story, to resolve some harrowing doubt 
or dilemma. . . . Hokosa, the wizard, whose art proved at first so nearly fatal to 
the messenger’s cause, and whose devilish plots resulted finally in conversion and 
Christianity, is one of Mr. Haggard’s best creations. The portrait has a vigor and 
picturesqueness comparable to that of* Allan Quatermain.’ ” 

—Picayune, New Orleans. 

‘ It has all the spirit and movement of this popular author’s finest work.” 

—Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 

“ A brilliant story truly, and here and there alive with enthusiasm and fire. Mr* 
Haggard describes savage combats with rare skill, and, somehow, we revel with him 
when he shows us legion after legion of untamed children of nature fighting to the grim 
death with uncouth weapons yet with as dauntless a courage as the best trained soldiers 
of Europe. It may be wrong for him to stir up our savage instincts, but, after all, a 
healthy animalism is not to be scoffed at in any breed of men.” — New York Herald. 

“ Is as full of adventure as the most ardent admirer of tales of courage and daring 
could desire. As its title implies, it portrays a character who is an adept in witch- 
craft, cunning, and knowledge of human nature. There is a distinct religious element 
throughout the book ; indeed, but for its religious motive there would be no story.” 

— St. Louis Republican. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91 93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YOKE. 


THE JEWEL OF YNYS GALON ; 

BEING A HITHERTO UNPRINTED CHAPTER IN 
THE HISTORY OF THE SEA ROVERS. 

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL. 

With I 2 Illustrations by Lancelot Speed. 

Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ The tale is exceptionally well told ; the descriptive passages are strong and viv- 
id without being over-elaborated ; and the recital of fights and adventures on sea and 
land is thrilling, without leading to any excess of horrors. The characters in the book 
are not all villians, but the progress of the narrative is lighted up by the ideals and 
strivings of brave and honorable men. The book is certainly a most attractive addi- 
tion to fiction of adventure, for it shows a fine degree of imagination on the part of the 
author. A glance at the illustrations by Lancelot Speed will alone be enough to incite 
a reading of the story from beginning to end.” — The Beacon, Boston. 

“ It is a work of genius— of the romantic-realistic school. The story is one of 
pirates and buried treasure in an island off the coast of Wales, and so well is it done 
that it fascinates the reader, putting him under an hypnotic spell, lasting long after the 
book has been laid aside. It is dedicated to ‘every one whose blood rouses at a tale 
of tall fights and reckless adventure,’ to men and boys alike, yet there will be keener 
appreciation by the boys of larger growth, whose dreams ‘ of buried treasure and of 
one day discovering some hoard whereby to become rich beyond imagination ’ have 
become dim and blurred in the ‘ toil and struggle for subsistence.’ ‘ The Jewel of Ynys 
Galon’ is one of the great books of 1895 and will live long.” — The World, New York. 

“ It is a splendid story of the sea, of battle and hidden treasure. This picture of 
the times of the sea rovers is most skillfully drawn in transparent and simple English, 
and it holds from cover to cover the absorbed interest of the reader.” 

—Press, Philadelphia. 

“ It is a story after the heart of both man and boy. There are no dull moments in 
it, and we find ourselves impatient to get on, so anxious are we to see what the next 
turn in the events is to bring forth ; and when we come to the end we exclaim in 
sorrow, “ Is that all ? ” and begin to turn back the leaves and re-read some of the most 
exciting incidents. 

Owen Rhoscomyl has just the talents for writing books of this kind, and they are 
worth a dozen of some of the books of to-day where life flows sluggishly on in a draw- 
ing-room. When the author writes another we want to know of it.” — Times, Boston. 

‘‘The style of this thrilling story is intensely vivid and dramatic, but there is 
nothing in it of the cheap sensational order. It is worthy a place among the classics 
for boys.”— Advertiser, Boston. 

“ The present school of romantic adventure has produced no more strikingly im- 
aginative story than this weird tale of Welsh pirates in the eighteenth century. . . . 
A most enthralling tale, . . . told with great artistic finish and with intense spirit. 
It may be recommended without reserve to every lover of this class of fiction.” 

— Times, Philadelphia. 

‘‘It is one of the best things of its kind that have appeared in a long time. . . . 
We do not know how far this tale may be taken to be historical, and, to be frank, 
we don t care. If these things did not happen, they might have happened, and ought 
• < L- 1 ? ve ” a PP ene d, and that is enough for us. If vou like ‘Treasure Island’ and 
K J?" a PP ed an( Jthe ‘White Company’ and 4 Francis Cludde’ and 4 Lorna Doone,’ 
The Jewel of Ynys Galon } and read it. You will not be disappointed. 0 

— Gazette, Colorado Springs, Col. 

• " 0ar ™n * n t er est in the book led us to read it at a sitting that went far into the 
night. The old Berserker spirit is considerably abroad in these pages, and the blood 
coursed the faster as stirring incident followed desperate situation and daring enter- 
prise.”— Literary World, London. s 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORE. 


BATTLEMENT AND TOWER. 

A ROMANCE. 

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL, 

AUTHOR OF “THE JEWEL OK YNYS GALON.” 


With Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodvilie. 12mo, Cloth, 

Ornamental, $1.25. 


R > s a rare tale of the wars of the Commonwealth. The hero, Howel, is a young 
Welsh lord whose father gives him his hereditary sword and shield, and sends him to 
battle for the king. His adventures in love and war are intensely fascinating, and the 
reader puts down the book with extreme reluctance. The author has carefully studied 
the history of the times, and, besides being a thrilling tale, his story is a charming 
picture oi the manners and customs of the day. It is a book well worth reading.” 

— New Orleans Picayune. 

“ • • • a powerful romance by Owen Rhoscomyl of the swashbuckling days in 

North Wales, when the Roundheads warred against the Cavaliers, and Charles I. ot 
England lost his head, both metaphorically and literally. . . . The picturesque 

and virile style of the author, and the remarkable power he displays in his character 
drawing, place his book among the notable pieces of fiction of the year. There is 
plenty of lighting, hard riding, love-making, and blood-letting in the story, but the 
literary touch given to his work by the author places his product far above the average 
of the many tales of like character that are now striving to satisfy the present demand 
for fiction that has power without prurience.” — W orld, New York. 

“There is a vein of very pretty romance which runs through the more stirring 
scenes of battle and of siege. The novel is certainly to be widely read by those who 
love the tale of a well-fought battle and of gallant youth in the days when men carved 
their way to fame and foitune with a sword.” — A dvertiser, Boston. 

“ . • . a rattling story of adventure, privation, and peril in the wild Welsh 
marches during the English civil war. ... In this stirring narrative Mr. Rhos- 
comyl has packed away a great deal of entertainment for people who like exciting 
fiction.”— C ommercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ There is a flavor of old world chivalry in his tempestuous wooing of winsome, 
imperious Barbara, a charming love idyl. . . . The hot blood of the Welshman 

leads him into many and diverse dangers, yet so gallant is he, so quick of wit, and 
with hand ever on sword hilt, that one accompanies him with unflagging attention. . . . 
The scenes of the story are historic, and the author’s fertile and ingenious imagination 
has constructed a thrilling tale in which the dramatic situations crowd thick and fast 
upon each other.” — F ree Press, Detroit. 

“ Owen Rhoscomyl, who wrote an excellent tale when he penned ‘ The Jewel of 
Ynys Galon,’ has followed it with another, different in kind but its equal in 
degree. . . . Deals with an entirely different phase of Welsh legend from his 
former story, for it enters the domain of history. ... It is full of merit, and is 
entitled to pass muster as one of the successful novels of the season. . . . The plot 

is involved, and there is a mystery in ft which is not wrought out until the concluding 
chapters. . . . The story will appeal strongly to the lover of romance and ad- 

venture.”— B rooklyn Eagle. 

“ He calls his book a * mosaic,’ and if such it be its stones are the quaint customs, 
strange ways, and weird legends of the Welsh, welded by strong and clear diction and 
colored with the pigments of a brilliant fancy. Gay pleasures, stern war, and true love 
are powerfully portrayed, rivalling each other in the interest of the reader. And 
though the heroes and their castles have l^ng been buried beneath the dust of time, 
this writer sends an electric current through his pages making every actor and his sur- 
roundings alive again. He brings each successive phase of adventure, love, or battle, 
before the imagination, clad in language that impresses itself upon the memory and 
makes the book fascinating.”— Republican, Denver. 

“ His story is a stirring one, full of events, alive with action, and gilded with sen- 
timent of romance.” — C ourier, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE,, NEW TORE. 


FOR THE WHITE ROSE OF ARNO 

A Story of the Jacobite Rising of 1 745 

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL 

AUTHOR OF “THE JEWEL OF YNYS GALON,” “BATTLEMENT AND TOWER,” 

ETC. 


Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25 


“ His ‘Jewel of Ynys Galon,’ was a splendid story of piracy on the Welsh coast. 
His ‘ Battlement and Tower ’ was a good story of Prince Rupert’s day. ... A third 
romance, ‘ For the White Rose of Arno,’ a story of the Jacobite rising of 1745, is pic- 
turesque and exciting. It can be recommended to every lover of a fine romantic melo- 
drama.”— Express, Buffalo, N.Y. 

“ There are plenty of stirring events in the story, love, treachery, and revenge 
fighting at cross-purposes. One of the most graphic descriptions is that of the wed- 
ding of the hero and heroine. Mr. Rhoscomyl has a picturesque imagination, and he 
paints vividly with bold, true strokes. . . . The author has studied the period of 

which he writes with great care. He has not allowed his imagination to run away 
with historical facts, and the book will appeal not only to lovers of romance and adven- 
ture, but to students of English history.” — Gazette, Colorado Springs. 

“The * White Rose of Arno ’ will delight all lovers of a good romantic novel.” 

— Eagle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

“ ... in this tale we are given a most stirring picture of the time of Charles 

Edward, the Pretender, and his devoted supporters. Nearly all of the incidents take 
place amid the hills and vales of beautiful Wales, and the contrast between scenery 
and wild human passions does much to heighten the effect of the story, which is very 
well told. The author is a Welshman, and the scenes he depicts one feels still burn 
within his soul ; hence his narrative is in the highest degree animated and forceful.” 

— Evening Transcript, Boston. 

“ . . . The story never lags for a moment, nor sags from its pitch of high 
heroism . . . Some of the scenes rival those others, well known, and, indeed, 
famous in 4 David Balfour,’ and 4 Kidnapped.’ . . . It is a splendid story. . . . 
Prince Charles figures more as a shadow in the background than a leader, but he im- 
presses himself vividly as a great personal inspiration.” — Times-Herald, Chicago. 

“ Owen Rhoscomyl has already written some rare stories of the wars of the Com- 
monwealth that have met with a splendid showing of practical appreciation by a 
world-wide circle of readers. This latest novel by the pleasing Welsh writer is one of 
the most powerful romances that have emanated from his pen, and will doubtless re- 
ceive as graceful a welcome to fiction literature as his previous efforts have done. It 
is a stirring story of Wales when the Roundheads were warring against the cavaliers, 
and Charles I of England lost his head and his coveted throne. The story is brimful 
of fighting, of hard travel and riding, and old-time love making, and the flavor of old 
world chivalry in the tenderer portions of the novel is charming and complete. With 
the pen of a realist, the author hurries his readers back to live over the dead, old wars, 
to dwell in strange Welsh castles that long ago crumbled into dust, and to view the 
history and romances of those early days as something tangible with our own exist- 
ences. The style is always active, virile and picturesque, and there is not a dull or 
tame chapter in the book.”— Courier, Boston. 

“ The story is told with spirit, and holds the attention without effort. The action 
is swift, the episodes stirring, the character drawing admirable, and the style good. 
The ultimate defeat of the Pretender, and the final denouement are tragic in their 
intensity, and powerfully pictured.”— Brooklyn Times. 

“This is a really stirring story, full of wild adventure, yet having an atmosphere 
of historic truthfulness, and conveying incidentally a good deal of information that is 
evidently based upon fresh study.”— Times, Philadelphia. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


THE CHEVALIER D’AURIAC. 

A ROMANCE. 

By S. LEVETT YEATS. 

AUTHOR OF “THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI,” ETC., ETC. 

1 2mo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 


. “ The story is full of action, it is alive from cover to cover, and is so compact with thrill- 

ing adventure that there is no room for a dull page. The chevalier tells his own story, but 
he is the most charming of egoists. He wins our sympathies from the outset by his boyish 
naivete, his downright manliness and bravery. . . . Not only has Mr. Yeats written an 

excellent tale of adventure, but he has shown a close study of character which does not bor- 
row merely from the trappings of historical actors, but which denotes a keen knowledge of 
human nature, and a shrewd insight into the workings of human motives. . . . The 

fashion of the period is kept well in mind, the style of writing has just that touch of old- 
fashioned formality which serves to veil the past from the present, and to throw the lights 
and shadows into a harmony of tone. . . . The work has literary quality of a genuine 

sort in it, which raises it above a numerous host of its fellows in kind.” 

— Bookman, New York. 

“ . ; . A story of Huguenot days, brim full of action that takes shape in plots, sud- 

den surprises, fierce encounters, and cunning intrigues. The author is so saturated with the 
times of which he writes that the story is realism itself. . . . The story is brilliant and 

thrilling, and whoever sits down to give it attention will reach the last page with regret.” 

— Globe, Boston. 

“ . . . A tale of more than usual interest and of genuine literary merit. . . . 

The characters and scenes in a sense seem far removed, yet they live in our hearts and seem 
contemporaneous through the skill and philosophic treatment of the author. Those men and 
women seem akin to us ; they are flesh and blood, and are impelled by human motives as we 
are. One cannot follow the fortunes of this hero without feeling refreshed and benefited.” 

— Globe-Democrat, St. Louis. 

“ A book that may be recommended to all those who appreciate a good, hearty, rollicking 
story of adventure, with lots of fierce fighting and a proper proportion of love-making. . . . 

There is in his novel no more history than is necessary, and no tedious detail ; it is a story 
inspired by, but not slavishly following, history. . . . The book is full of incident, and 

from the first chapter to the last the action never flags. ... In the Chevalier the author 
has conceived a sympathetic character, for d’Auriac is more human and less of a puppet than 
most heroes of historical novels, and consequently there are few readers who will not find en- 
joyment in the story of his thrilling adventures. . . . This book should be read by ail 

who love a good story of adventures. There is not a dull page in it.” — New York Sun. 

“A capital story of the Dumas-Weyman order. . . . The first chapters bring one 

right into the thick of the story, and from thence on the interest is unflagging. The Cheva- 
lier himself is an admirably studied character, w’hose straightforwardness and simplicity, 
bravery, and impulsive and reckless chivalry, win the reader’s sympathy. D’Auriac has 
something of the intense vitality of Dumas’s heroes, and the delightful improbabilities through 
which he passes so invincibly have a certain human quality which renders them akin to our 
day. Mr. Levett Yeats has done better in this book than in anything else he has written.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 

“The interest in the story does not lag for an instant; all is life and action. The pict- 
uresque historical setting is admirably painted, and the characters are skilfully drawn, espe- 
cially that of the king, a true monarch, a brave soldier, and a gentleman. The Chevalier is 
the typical hero of romance, fearing nothing save a stain on his honor, and with such a hero 
there can not but be vigor and excitement in every page of the story.” 

— Mail and Express, New York. 

“ As a story of adventure, pure and simple, after the type originally seen in Dumas’s 
‘Three Musketeers,’ the book is well worthy of high praise.” — Outlook, New York. 

“ We find all the fascination of -mediaeval France, which have made Mr. Weyman’s stories 
such general favorites. . . . We do not see how any intelligent reader can take it up 

without keen enjoyment.” — Living Church, Chicago. 


LONGMANS, GP.EEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVB., NEW YOKE, 


THE PRINCESS DESIREE 

A ROMANCE 

By CLEMENTINA BLACK 

AUTHOR OK “AN AGITATOR,” “ MISS FALKLAND,” ETC. 


With 8 Full-page Illustrations by John Williamson 

i2mo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25 

N 

“ The reader who begins this very fascinating tale will feel bound to finish it. . [j 
. . . The story runs naturally in a highly romantic vein. It is, however, so brightly 

and choicely written and is so interesting throughout, as to be to the reader a source 
of real delight.” — Aberdeen Daily Free Press. 

“ Miss Black may be congratulated on achieving a distinct success and furnishing 
a thoroughly enjoyable tale. — Athenaeum, London. 

“ Is a romantic story of the adventures of the heiress to a pretty German princi- 
pality. It has a pure love story, and is written with spirit.” — Outlook, New York. 

“ There is plenty of intrigue and royal family affairs, and those who love a his- 
torical novel will enjoy this one. It has the air of being founded on facts.” — Com- 
mercial Tribune, Cincinnati. 

“ Once in a while there appears a novel that, without manifesting any special 
originality, yet leaves with its reader a sense of satisfaction that many more im- 
portant works fail to give. Such a story is the “ Princess Desiree/’ — Buffalo 
Express. 

“ The story is thoroughly satisfactory, it contains little sentiment but many inter- 
esting situations, and much forceful action. It is told with a directness that attracts 
in these busy days and is an admirable picture of French and German intrigue. It is 
well illustrated and bound.” — Boston Times. 

“This readable novel may be read at a sitting with unflagging in- 

terest.” — Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ The plot is exceedingly well managed, in spite of its demands upon the credulity 
of the reader, and the author’s style is terse, clear cut, and piquant The eight full- 
page illustrations by John Williamson are cleverly done.” — Boston Beacon. 

“A brightly written story, full of unusual adventure of a quasi-political nature. 

. . . Is entertaining reading throughout.” — Press, Philadelphia. 

“A vivacious novel.” — P ublic Opinion, New York. 

“ It is amusing in the picture it gives of the sudden change of an ardent Republi- 
can, through love for one of the royal race, to a Monarchist. There is a pleasant 
freshness of tone about it, and Ludovic De Sainte is quite as worthy of the Grand 
Duchess of Feisenheim as was Rudolph of the Brincess Fluvia. The political intrigue 
is simple yet very exciting and effective. There is no effort at high tragedy, but the 
plot is simply and skillfully developed and holds interest well. . . . Altogether, it 

is a brave story, and you will like to read it.” — Nassau Literary Magazine, Prince- 
ton, N. J. 

“The Princess Ddsii^e .... will win universal praise. It is one of the 
most charming love stories that have been published of late years, pure and optimistic, 
reminding us, but by no means as a servile imitation, of another lady, the romantic 
’Princess Osra,’ whose heart, or want of heart, was so ably described by Mr. 
Anthony Hope.” — Star, Montreal. 

“Except that there is nothing in it that is either supernatural or essentially im- 
probable, it has much of the charm of a fairy tale. The style is pure and the story 
dramatic with the additional attraction of eight or ten well executed illustrations.— 
San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ There is enough exciting interest in ‘ The Princess Dc?sin?e ’ to make one wish 

to read it through as soon as possible There is an undesirable charm in 

the narrative.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 


LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YORK 


WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS. 

A Novel of Canadian Life and Character. 

By MISS L. DOUGALL, 

AUTHOR OF “ BEGGARS ALL.” 


Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00. 


*' A very remarkable novel, and not a book that can be lightly classified or ranged with 
Other modern works of fiction. . . . It is a distinct creation ... a structure of 

re ie and original design and of grand and dignified conception. . . . The book bristles 

with epigrammatic sayings which one would like to remember. ... It will appeal 
strongly by force of its originality and depth of insight and for the eloquence and dignity of 
style tn the descriptive passages.”— Manchester Guardian, London. 


‘We think we are well within the mark in saying that this novel is one of the three or 
four best novels of the year. The social atmosphere as well as the external conditions of 
Canadian life are reproduced faithfully. The author is eminently thoughtful, yet the story 
•? not distinctively one of moral purpose. The play of character and the clash of purpose are 
finely wrought out. . . . What gives the book its highest value is really the author’s 

deep knowledge of motive and character. The reader continually comes across keen obser- 
vations and subtle expressions that not infrequently recall George Eliot. The novel is one 
that is worth reading a second time.”— Outlook, New York. 

“ Keen analysis, deep spiritual insight, and a quick sense of beauty in nature and 
human nature are combined to put before us a drama of human life ... the book is not 
only interesting but stimulating, not only strong but suggestive, and we may say of the 
writer, in Sidney Lanier’s words, ‘She shows man what he may be in terms of what he is.’* 

- T.iterakv World, Boston. 


BEGGARS ALL. 

A NOVEL. 

By MISS L. D OUGALL. 

Sixth Edition. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00. 

“ This is one of the strongest as well as most original romances of the year. . . . The 

plot is extraordinary. . . . The close of the story is powerful and natural. ... A 

masterpiece of restrained and legitimate dramatic fiction.’ — L iterary World. 

“To say that ‘ Beggars All’ is a remarkable novel is to put the case mildly indeed, for 
it is one of the most original, discerning, and thoroughly philosophical presentations of • 
character that has appeared in English for many a day. . . . Emphatically a novel 

that thoughtful people ought to read . . . the perusal of it will by many be reckoned 

among the intellectual experiences that are not easily forgotten.” — B oston Beacon. 

“ A story of thrilling interest.” — H ome Journal. 

“ A very unusual quality of novel. It is written with ability ; it tells a strong story with 
elaborate analysis of character and motive . . . it is of decided interest and worth 
reading.” — C ommercial Advertiser, N. Y. 

“ It is mope than a story for mere summer reading, but deserves a permanent place 
among the best works of modern fiction. The author has struck a vein of originality purely 
her own. . . . It is tragic, pathetic, humerous by turns. . . . Miss Dougall has, in 

fact, scored a great success. Her book is artistic, realistic, intensely dramatic — in fact, one 
of the novels of the year.” — B oston Traveller. 

“ 'Beggars All ’ is a noble work of art, but is also something more and something better. 

It is a book with a soul in it, and in a sense, therefore, it may be described as an inspired 
work. The inspiration of genius may or may not be lacking to it, but the inspiration of a 

f rnre and beautiful spirituality pervades it completely . . . the characters are truth- 

ally and powerfully drawn, the situations finely imagined, and the story profoundly 
interesting.” — C hicago Tribune. * 


LONGMANS, GBEEN, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YOKE. 


FLOTSAM. 

THE STUDY OF A LIFE. 

By HENRY SETON MERRIMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “WITH EDGED TOOLS,” “THE SOWERS,” ETC. 

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. G. MASSEY. 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ The scene of this thoroughly interesting book is laid at the time of the great 
Indian mutiny of 1857, and the chapters devoted to that terrible episode in the history 
of English rule in India are among the most interesting in the volume, the capture of 
Delhi in particular being graphically described.” — Herald, Oneonta, N. Y. 

“ It is a powerful study.”— C incinnati Commercial Gazette. 

“ One of the strongest novels of the season.”— Boston Advertiser. 

“It is decidedly a novel worth reading.”— N ew England Magazine. 

“ . . . From first to last our interest in the dramatic development of the plot is 
never allowed to flag. * Flotsam ’ will amply sustain the reputation which Mr. 
Merriman has won.” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“ It is a rather stirring story, dealing with breezy adventures in the far East, and 
sketching in strong outlines some very engaging phases of romance in India not down 
in Mr. Kipling’s note-books.”— Independent, New York. 

“ It is a novel of strong, direct, earnest purpose, which begins well in a literary 
sense and ends better.”— Sun, Baltimore. 

“ A brilliant gift for characterization and dramatic effect put his novels among 
the best of the season for entertainment, and, to no small extent, for instruction.” 

—Dial, Chicago. 

“ Mr. Merriman can write a good story ; he proved that in * The Sowers,’ and he 
shows it anew in this. . . . The story is a strong one and told with freshness and 

simple realism.”— Current Literature, New York. 

“ His story is remarkably well told.” — Herald, Columbia, Mo. 

“ It is a novel written with a purpose, yet it is entirely free from preaching or 
moralizing. The young man, Harry Wylam, whose career from childhood to the 
prime of manhood is described, is a bright, daring, and lovable character, who starts 
with every promise of a successful life, but whose weakness of will, and love of 
pleasure, wreck his bright hopes midway. The author shows unusual skill in dealing 
with a subject which in less discreet hands might have been an excuse for morbidity.” 

—Boston Beacon. 

“ A story of lively and romantic incident. . . . His story is remarkably well 

told.”— New York Sun. 

“ The story is full of vigorous action . . . and interesting.” 

—Public Opinion. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


THE VIOLET. 

A Novel. 

By JULIA MAGRUDER, 

AUTHOR OF “ PRINCESS SONIA,” ETC. 

With 1 1 Illustrations by Charles Dana Gibson. Crown 8vo. 
Cloth, Ornamental, Gilt Top, $ 1 .25. 


‘Julia Magruder has made a very pretty story of ‘ The Violet ’-a story with just 
those touches of graceful sentiment that are sure to gratify the girl reader. ... It 
is a pleasure to come upon a romance so pure in motive, so refined in sentiment, and 
so delicate in manner . . . and the book has an added charm in the illustrations 
by Charles Dana Gibson, who seems to have caught the spirit of the text to a nicety 
and to have interpreted it with an admirably sympathetic technique.” 

- Beacon, Boston. 

“Julia Magruder has given her readers a charming story in ‘ The Violet ’—one as 
sweet and simple and lovely as the modest flower itself. . . . It is a beautiful 
character study, breathing forth the fragrance of womanly sweetness in every phrase. 
The illustrations by Gibson are apt, and the binding and'make-up of the book appro- 
priately attractive.” — Times, Boston. 

“ Is a good, wholesome love story. The plot is natural and the characters real. 
. . . * The Violet ’ is a study which the reader may wish could have been pro- 

longed.”— E agle, Brooklyn. 

“A story altogether as beautiful and inspiring as its name . . . one of the 
most charming books of the season, as it is an old fashioned story with a delicious bit 
of mystery interwoven with the romance of a young heroine who, though poor, pos- 
sesses every grace and accomplishment.” — Courier, Boston. 

“ It is a pure, sweet story, with a fragrance as of violets clinging to it, and it de- 
lightfully sets forth the attributes of true manhood and true womanhood.” 

—Home Journal, N. Y. 


DOREEN. 

The Story of a Singer. 

By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF "WE TWO,” " DONOVAN,” “THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER,” “ IN 

THE GOLDEN DAYS,” ETC., ETC. 


Crown 8vo, Buckram Cloth, Ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“ A plot which has original life and vigor. . . . Altogether a good novel, and 

if the author had written nothing else she could safely rest her literary reputation on 
* Doreen.’ ” — Public Opinion, N. Y. 

“ Edna Lyall’s . . . new story ... is one of her best. It has, naturally, 

enough of tragedy to make it intensely interesting without being sensational in any 
offensive sense. The heroine, Doreen, is a delightful character, sturdy, strong, lovable, 
womanly, and genuinely Irish. Miss Bayly is a conscientious writer, imbued with 
deep feeling, a high purpose, and her style is attractive and pure.” 

— Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“ It is a very clever story indeed, and skillfully written.” 

—New Orleans Picayune. 

“ This is perhaps one of the best of Edna Lyall’s clever stories. Doreen is a young 
Irish girl, who loves her native land, and who is a credit to her race. . . . Inter- 
woven with the story of her experience and of her love for a young Englishman is an 
interesting account of the rise and progress of the Home Rule movement. Miss Lyall’s 
book is a charming tale, and will not fail to delight every one who reads it. The girl 
Doreen is a beautiful character.” — Catholic News. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK, 


WAYFARING MEN. 

By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF “DONOVAN,” “ WE TWO,” “DOREEN,” ETC. 


Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


“ . . . We take up Edna Lyall’s last novel . . . with high expectations, and 

we are not disappointed. Miss Bayly has acquired a wonderful insight into human nature, 
and this last production of her pen is full of the true portrayals of life. . . . The whole 

book is a whiff of ‘caller air ’ in these days of degenerate fiction.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ One of her best stories. It has all the qualities which have won her popularity in the 
past.” — S entinel, Milwaukee. 

“A well-written and vigorous story.” — O bserver, New York. 

“ It is a strong story, thoroughly well constructed, . . . with the characters very 
skilfully handled. . . . Altogether the story is far above the ordinary, and bids fair to 
be one of the most successful of the opening season.” — C ommercial, Buffalo. 

“ Edna Lyall . . . has added another excellent volume to the number of her ro- 

mances. ... It sustains the reputation of the author for vigorous writing and graceful 
depicting of life, both in the peasant’s cabin and the noble’s hall.’* 

— Observer, Utica, New York. 

“ Miss Lyall’s novel is one of unflagging interest, written in that clear, virile style, with 
its gentle humor and dramatic effectiveness, that readers well know and appreciate. . . . 

On many pages of the story the writer reveals her sympathetic admiration for Ireland and 
the Irish. ‘Wayfaring Men ’ is a literary tonic to be warmly welcomed and cheerfully com- 
mended as an antidote to much of the unhealthy, morbid, and enervating fiction of the day.” 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

“ The author has made a pretty and interesting love-story, ... a truthful picture of 
modern stage life, and a thoroughly human story that holds the interest to the end.” 

— Tribune, Chicago. 

“ It is a story that you will enjoy, because it does not start out to reform the world in less 
than five hundred pages, only to wind up by being suppressed by the government. It is a 
bright story of modern life, and it will be enjoyed by those who delighted in ‘ Donovan,’ 
‘ We Two/ and other books by this author.” — C incinnati Tribune. 

“A new book by Edna Lyall is sure of a hearty welcome. ‘Wayfaring Men’ will not 
disappoint any of her admirers. It has many of the characteristics of her earlier and still 
popular books. It is a story of theatrical life, with which the author shows an unusually 
extensive and sympathetic acquaintance.” — N ew Orleans Picayune. 

“ Characterized by the same charming simplicity of style and realism that won for 
‘ Donovan’ and ‘ Knight Errant’ their popularity. . . . INI iss Lyall has made no attempt 

to create dramatic situations, though it is so largely a tale of stage life, but has dealt with 
the trials and struggles of an actor’s career with an insight and delicacy that are truly pleas- 
ing.” — T he Argonaut, San Francisco. 

“ Is a straightforward, interesting story, in which people and things theatrical have 
much to do. The hero is an actor, young and good, and the heroine— as Miss Lyall’ s hero- 
ines are sure to be— is a real woman, winning and lovable. There is enough excitement in 
the book to please romance-lovers, and there are no problems to vex the souls of those who 
love a story for the story’s sake. It will not disappoint the large number of persons who 
have learned to look forward with impatient expectation to the publication of Miss Lyall’s 
* next novel.’ * Wayfaring Men ’ is sure of a wide and a satisfied reading.” 

— Womankind, Springfield, Ohio. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YORK. 























































































































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